Question

The world is loud and much too bright,
A jarring hum of morning light,
The neighbors wave, the engines start,
Indifferent to a splintered heart.
It is a strange and heavy thing—
How birds still find the breath to sing,
How coffee steams and shadows fall,
While you are nothing, nowhere, all.
You are a house with windows gone,
A ghost who watches for the dawn,
Tracing the shape of what was there,
Grabbing at fistfuls of empty air.
Love was the gravity, love was the ground,
And now you are spinning, no longer bound,
To the orbit of "us" or the safety of "home,"
A nomad in skin that feels made of stone.
But time is a river that knows no dam;
It carries the "was" and the "could have been" jam.
And though it feels like a final bell,
The cells in your chest continue to swell.
You breathe because the lungs insist,
You exist because the stars persist.
The ache is a debt that you pay to the past,
A proof that a love was too heavy to last.
One day the crater will fill with the rain,
And green things will grow from the salt of the pain.
Not because you forgot how it felt to be torn,
But because even ruins must face the new morn.

Answer 1

good job

Answer 2

Great job I love this! Very wise words

Answer 3

Very nice man keep it going!