I let you go now I miss you.
It’s not that I don’t care, I’m afraid.
I’m your shadow, what am I without you.
Let’s sit somewhere idly and watch the world go by. Let’s wave at the little school girl across the street. Let’s not look at the scary smoking guy wearing an old torn pair of jeans. Let’s smile at the dog near our feet. Let’s point fingers at the tall skyscrapers and at the plants in their balconies. Let’s look up at the sky as a flock of birds return to their home in the trees. Let’s talk about the weather and the chilly evening breeze. Let’s just sit together. Holding hands. Doing absolutely nothing.
A cold denial, filled with feelings of remorse.
Serving warm bowls of soup for cold hearts.
The door flew open revealing confusion, hesitation, grief.
A forgotten diary, opened a floodgate of emotions.
If you have an eight word short story or poem to share, then please share them with me and the community in the comment section below. I would love to read them! ❤️
Does not have to be a jumble of words
Or, beautiful sounding prose.
It’s what the people always say,
Poetry is in everything that’s around you.
It doesn’t need to be
Created, written, spoken, or sung.
It doesn’t have to always be expressed.
It can be in the unsaid little things of life.
When you close your eyes in prayer,
The reverent bow of your head, my friend, is a poem.
It is a feeling that flows,
It does not have to be controlled,
Who says you need to follow rules, meters, or rhymes
To feel poetry,
and if you do, that’s great too.
Well, then that’s the ultimate form of poetry.
But poetry, my dear, is you.
The emotions that flow inside of you.
The good ones, the bad ones,
The sad ones, the angry ones,
The love, the hate.
When you feel a darkness creeping within,
Gnawing at your skin
Breaking you, pulling you down,
Haven’t you tried to fight, to overcome?
Expecting light at the end of the tunnel?
You have reached your hand out for help,
Right there is hope, right there in your spirit is poetry.
When you are drowned in work,
Day and night with no track of time,
You have forgotten to eat,
Hungry and tired.
But, when you finally raise your head and stretch
In that deep long breath of exhaustion is poetry.
You are hanging onto your life,
In a local crowded train.
Sweating, cursing, sighing,
Pushing, pulling, struggling..
Struggling for a breath of fresh air.
In that struggling, funny anger my lovely one, let us find poetry.
Poetry is not always flowery.
It can be anything that you want it to be.
Doubtless, that the poems written by
The hopeless romantics,
On the falling leaves,
On the blooming trees,
On the rising, thrashing waves,
On the pouring, loving rain
Will always be the rainbows in the skies.
But, let us continue finding beauty
In the most unexpected traces of life.
Hover in stillness of the room.
A warm yellow light
Swelling an air of melancholy.