Dewdrop Diaries

My 8 miles commute to class takes about 30 minutes,  One way.  The distance isn’t far but it takes time,  Like a lot of things.  I experience little joys on the ride-  Sweet doses of novelty and solitude-  But I do find myself  Looking back at some things that I have passed  And some things that have passed me in this journey.  Wondering if I`ll ever go back,  And will the things that have passed come back to me?  I know where I want to go.  I know I`m in motion, but I don’t always know  If I`m going forward the whole time.  I do this every day, So I shouldn’t be so confused,  But sometimes I forget  And occasionally take some wrong turns,  Getting stuck behind trash trucks or get caught at a dead end,  And then hate myself  For taking the risk in the first place.  Other times I`ll catch myself  Embracing the detour,  Deliberately going out of my way to drive by an avenue,...

Anything said in pain becomes poetry, because pain does not filter, it does not dress itself in gentle words. It spills out, raw, like a river breaking its banks, like fire that cannot be tamed. In pain, we speak truths we didn’t know we held— truths buried beneath smiles and quiet nods of understanding. Pain brings them to the surface, whether we want them there or not. In the silence of grief, there is a poem— one that we don’t write with our hands but with the heaviness in our chest, with the weight that presses down until we have no choice but to let it out, to speak, to shout, to weep. We try to capture it, the way pain cuts through us, but the words feel too small, too fragile to hold what is breaking inside. Still, we try. Still, we reach for those scattered words, because in pain, there is something sacred, something that binds us to ourselves, to each other, to the earth. Pain has its own language, and it does not ask for permission to be heard. It makes poetry of the moments ...