In Pain, There Is Poetry!💗

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

we thought we would never survive.

It finds beauty in the way we keep breathing

when we thought we couldn’t.

In the quiet spaces between the cries,

there is something like a song,

a melody of endurance,

of resilience.

When you speak in pain,

you are a poet,

even if the words tremble

as they leave your lips.

Even if they are jagged and unpolished,

they are true.

And truth, in its rawest form,

is the purest kind of poetry.

So we speak.

We let the pain turn into something

we can hold,

something we can share,

not to erase it,

but to understand it,

to let it be seen.

For in every whispered hurt,

in every broken confession,

there is poetry.

It is not pretty,

but it is real.

And sometimes,

that is all we need.