Once I loved a flower so much
that instead of picking it,
I left it alone.

My eyes refused to watch her leave
So my tears came to blur my vision

How am I supposed to act like I don't care,
Like you didn't just leave a hole I'm my chest.

This sinking feeling that I'll never see you again
A stranger turned to a lover and back to a stranger

Your name still echoes in the sounds of June
Like an unfinished song under the moon

We laugh like lovers, touch like the breeze
And call it friendship, just to keep the peace

In the story of my life, you're the sweetest line
With a bond like ours, even time couldn't redefine.

And so ...
I write you in poems you'll never read
Loving you softly, with a heart that bleeds.

No,
not every poem
needs to bloom
with romance
to make a heart grow
full and wise;
There is poetry
found in survival,
in unhappy endings
and goodbyes.
Not every poem
must woo the reader,
or make their yearning soar,
some poems taste
like bitter coffee grounds
and nothing much like love.

©️Lizzie Bevis

I want to be far from here
I don't care where I go
As long as I am away from my problems
Yet I cannot leave without creating more issues
I am full of problems

it’s the kind of sad
that doesn’t cry loud.
it just sits,
quietly,
in the corners of the room,
curling into the shadows
until even the light
feels heavy.

the kind of sad
where you can’t tell
if you’re tired
or just empty.
if you’re lonely
or just lost.
where music doesn’t help,
but silence hurts more.

it’s the kind of sad
that doesn’t need a reason.
just wakes up with you,
sits beside you on the train,
follows you into class,
and climbs into your bed
before you can even
close your eyes.

it’s the kind of sad
where you drive in the car
and you think you’re okay
until you hear the music
and burst out into tears.
for no reason.

and you want to talk about it.
but what do you say?
“i’m sad,”
like it’s news?
like it hasn’t made
a home in your bones already?
like it hasn’t decorated
your ribs
with every memory
you swore you were over?

it’s the kind of sad
that makes you ache
for people who aren’t coming back,
for versions of yourself
you barely remember.
for a feeling that used to be yours
before everything got
so heavy.

but still,
somehow,
you keep going.
even when it hurts.
especially when it hurts.
and that matters,
even if no one sees it,
though you wish someone would.