Saying no can be one of the hardest things people do. My heart starts to beat with guilt, and my head overflows with unrooted thoughts that race to imagine the worst possibilities. The loved ones I hold close turn unrecognizable as my brain twists the kind words that escape their mouths.

For me and many other people, that’s the truth. It can consume who you are when the world screams that it’s selfish. Everyone has been young and naive. Kids are taught to give up their self worth for a couple comfortable seconds, the absence of a simple word molding their minds into an unhealthy collection of worthlessness. Saying no isn’t selfish, when protecting the parts of yourself that deserve to remain yours.

The healthy idea of saying no didn’t even enter my mind until I saw a simple TikTok. A woman dressed in warm colored clothing resting on her bed, spilling soft words. There was a gentle acceptance in hearing her say, “It’s not selfish to prioritize your well being,” something I should have heard long before. Many dreadful years of silence left guilt ripping with anger through my mind, mourning the innocent kid I let die.

Unearned trust no longer needed to flee the inevitable void of disrespect. The unspoken phrases buried safely in my skin ceased their repetitive silence. My mouth forgot the years that were taken by childish insecurities. There was safety in not needing to let pieces of myself rot with regret for someone else’s ego.

The morning rays of the sun sat on my tangled blanket, buried beneath my legs. My phone next to me was filled with exhausting messages from people who could never care. The screen glared its blue light onto my skin as my eyes read, “Call me.” I watched as the last hope of a moment that lived for me became someone else’s, knowing my lips would forget each other’s warmth for the hope of love.

My finger stopped before my heart could settle its discomfort into another unspoken thought. I stared at the word “No” typed onto my phone and nervously sent it. All the feelings that always clawed through my head never came. The soft voice in my head reminded me that saying no could be one of the easiest things people do when they realize they don’t owe anyone their comfort.

We dreamed about wandering and having fun together,

Every day I pass by you but it hasn’t been destined for me to talk to you,

Now even the walls of my home tell me to stop gazing at those pictures,

That only adorn my dreams in desolate palaces.

A man, bent beneath sorrow’s mantle, wanders a forest path, cradling the fragile glow of hope.

His desire for solace ever present, the path reveals where ache softens, and the world feels kind.

One such moment … a birdsong drifts down a spiral of light —
breaking shadows woven through treetops —
descending upon a whispering, luminous thread.** **

A wanting gaze upward beholds a sparkling bird in song.
Souls resurrected by melody — bound by fate.

A hymn, as solitary comfort.
Calming, peaceful, warm —
stirring belief, that finally he was found —
he had found … home.

The song unsealed reverence not yet understood —
out of time, out of place.
So essential, it summoned forth the offering:
a hand outstretched — a sacred invitation, of refuge, of surrender —
in exchange for her song’s quiet healing.

The bird descends —
a determined flit toward, then away —
back up to its closed rest among the trees —
sparkle folded into shadow, its gift hovering just beyond reach, an eternal melody illumined in mind and soul.

Again he gestures, the hopeful hand extended —
Each attempt unanswered — the bird untethered — solace retreating.

He wonders: why will it not land?
Perhaps it awaits the right hand —
yet all the while, it was his *left* he offered.
A hand impossibly bound in the life of his making.

The sparkle — a mirage.
Her shimmering plume conceals a dispirited refrain.
Twinned darkness, a spiral — open, hidden — swallowing their light.

And still, her song drifts.
Unsettled, he remains in the silence …

Beautiful Ebony Angel —
Creator and Destroyer.
How You haunt me.
Above me once, the storm gathered —
wings like blades in black wind — screaming, spinning, the sky alive with grief — foretelling shadow.

A Mother.
A Father.
Infinite longing, anguish, fear and anger —
torment born from Sons lost,
poured into the living Daughter.
She is what we could not bury —
a wondrous incarnation shaped by sorrow, a paradox of hope and ache.
A miracle — and a burden.

Raven, let me go…

Beautiful Ebony Angel —
Messenger and Love-Lost Trickster —
with Your shared spirit.
A fleeting touch, a gesture,
a soothing warmth —
mistaken perhaps, for promise.
This yearning born of absence clings to threads of memory —
of children briefly held, of love never to be.

Who dares inflict such cruel irony —
to be tethered through Your improbable signal —
this divine echo?

Raven, let me go…

Beautiful Ebony Angel —
Light Bearer and Prophet.
A torn heart longs to heal.
To cut the thread that binds loss to the Living:
unraveled mind, fractured connection, hollowed will —
the unwanted ending.
No peace, no clarity — no self.

No longing can make real what never came to be.
And yet Your presence lingers —
a comfort, a weight, a hope.
As with Yours —
these Souls, not mine to hold.
Only Your release,
Beautiful Shadow,
can free the Miracle,
the Mother, the Father —
and Thee.

Let go the Raven.

Among origins of light, 

Frailty candy coated in dust, 

She knew naught of flight.

Born of pressure, 

unknown to the blind eyes that

Once closed now measure. 

Burst forth and blind without regret,

incur the halls of mirrored glass, 

to reach the echoes of the past.

Frigid connections haunt forevermore

a blunder made in material deep. 

Where she once lay, where i may reap. 

The birth of a star, 

Sudden as a switch

Trigger pull and body twitch.

Hammer fall, frozen time, 

I am worthy of my spine. 

One day stars shall rest my bones, 

the flesh i once loathed, 

whence gleaming light 

guide me home.

Id love to know what people think of this, especially what thoughts it brings to mind.

Im not a writer by any means, but i tend to write poetry about deep feelings or fleeting thoughts i have and i've never shared it before.

This poem in particular is about my journey with myself, the disconnect between my mind and body and coming to terms with my own life and death.

Poetry novice, coming through.

With summer now behind us, I’m facing a second winter alone since my wife passed last May, one without widower/grief stuff like I had to handle last year, without the sense that she is here and without her as my “blanket”, I have Seasonal Affective Disorder and I’m constantly growing anxious and neurotic by the day, so I wrote a thing.

I hope I can count on your contempt like I do for the next six months.

Oh, look at how brightly the sky has shone.
The sun, the clarity it brings forth.
Look at how tall the trees have grown.
Ever giant, never bending.
What started as a small act of love,
The first seed is planted with our four hands.
We water, we toil, we turn the dirt.

Weeds.

Their persistent stubbornness sneaks above the ground.
Pull, pluck, dig, never ending.
Sunshine, everlasting, surviving the tests of even the greatest thunderous tumults.
Still the seedling grows with love and kindness.
Tenderly we share the burden of love everlasting,
Ideas abound, conflicting on best of care.
Still, we water, toil, and turn the dirt, gazing upon what we share.
Leaves brown, leaves fall, bare the trees, again we will see green.
As many seasons come and go, 4 hands turn to 3.

Weeds.

The 4th has grown bored and plays with them.
“Look at the dandelions whose faces make me smile”, he says.
“Still, I think, 3 hands are better than none.”
Look at the trees mightily stand tall.
The fruits they bear appear bright and sweet,
Whose sweetness I hope to share.
Slowly the sun shifts westward, still beaming in the heights.
The day is long and we have plenty of time.
As we water, toil, and turn the dirt,

Weeds.

Keeping us from the chore we bear.
The 3rd hand becomes distracted, no time to care:
“Look at these dandelions whose handsomeness make me blush.”
2 hands are left, the sun begins to darken,
Silhouettes fall, at first in the likeness of our trees.
Descending proof of our hard work from the once hearty, now hollow trunks.

Weeds.

Petals fall from their faces, revealing their true graces.
The 3rd and 4th hands burrow across the field searching for more amorous gazes.
The shadows, now disfigured with jagged edges and weeping limbs,
Lay bare the sour fruit now tasted.
Looking back, his hands nowhere to be found.

Weeds.

A chill breeze shivers.
No water.
No toil.
No turning of dirt.
Both hands blistered, grip weak.
Holding my breath, waiting for his familiar warmth to grasp mine.
I stare toward the setting sun, fleeing beyond our orchard,
Weeds and I are left behind.

Until Death Do Us Part

Youve left me alone, so alone i will stay
I dont know why god would just take you away
Never before have i wanted to break
Ive nothing to give, there is nothing to take
The love that i feel would ne’er stop with my heart
Just know you complete me, until death do us part

my chest aches with longing, it shalt ne’er be sated
my love is in vain, ill timed and ill fated
wherever winds blow, or where ocean meets sand
ill keep you close to me, this heartache my brand
500 lifetimes, no matter their start, are not lifetimes without you, when death does us part

I was stuck in an impatience madness,
Searching for saints;
After committing many mistakes,
I understood, it’s all because of me.

Still, I don't understand.
What is patience?
When do we need patience?

After too many searches,
In need of an answer,
I asked Valluvan - a philosophical Tamil poet.

Read full poem: https://deepankb.com/en/journal/envious-toward-patience/

Languages: Tamil and English

Rock Girl

At the superstore 

She had those blue evil eyes 

Metallic nostril 

She made the first move, Rock Girl 

Out of her bra, a rose quartz 

My mother warned me 

Never give Rock Girl a chance 

She gave me citrine 

Right then and there I began

To shake and sweat, she just laughs 

You are beautiful 

However I don't believe 

In aventurine

Your eyes do shine like opal

Only similes I'll pull 

With me you won't be satisfied 

No watermelon tourmaline

Or blue lace agate

Can alter our lives

These rocks will always have a place 

Just nowhere in my mind 

Oh Rock Girl  (You won't be satisfied with me)

Oh Rock Girl (I can't make you happy)

Oh Rock Girl (I'm more of a rock and roll fiend)

Rock Girl! Rock on!

Jade

Smooth, Green

Soothing, shining, inviting 

Solid, hard, cold, rough 

Remaining, idling, laying 

Crude, Calm

Rock

let me know what you think, its my first time

I wonder if the trees can feel the heavy winds.

I wonder if the trees shiver, or get goosebumps.

I wonder if trees feel cold, or isolated being all by themselves.

I wonder if trees feel love.

I wonder if trees hope for a significant other to share this feeling.

Instead of endearing the cold alone.

I wonder if instead of having someone to survive with..

I wonder instead if the soil beneath its roots helps the tree maintain his strength by not being alone, having someone to hold.

The roots grip onto the soil for support.

While the soil helps the roots.

Who has the soil?

We polute.

Reconstruct.

And stomp on the soil, while soil helps so many living things.

Living things that we dont even consider to be living.

The idea or train of thought is about losing focus of the path of love between man and woman. is the following anything?

"In our ignorance of how to proceed we lose ourselves. stumbling into anger and hatred blind to the path we once had of loving each other."

https://reddit.com/link/1w49adl/video/o5cvhdk0awmh1/player