The Poems I Wasn’t Meant to Read
I found the page tucked in a book,
Its fold too neat, like care it took.
A poem, simple—sharp and cold,
A story inked but never told.
“I never loved him,” the first line read,
And something in me quietly bled.
Not anger, not a bitter tone—
Just a truth that stood there, all alone.
No fire, no fight—just frozen air,
A silence shaped like no one there.
Not a trace of me inside the frame,
Not even shadow tied to name.
Elsewhere, a hidden file—another note,
One more poem that she wrote.
A man unknown, his presence far,
Drawn in lines too bold, too clear.
A laugh, a touch, a night of stars,
A place where nothing broke or scarred.
“So much between us left unsaid,”
That final line just rang and bled.
And it was then I felt the sting—
Not just of him, but everything.
The weight of all we never voiced,
Of moments passed, of silent choice.
The dreams we named but never chased,
The goals that time and fear erased.
The plans we whispered half-awake,
Too fragile for the light to take.
The things we needed, never asked,
Desires buried, faces masked.
The nights we held but didn’t feel,
The love we wanted to be real.
And maybe that’s the cruelest cut—
Not lies, not lust, not breaking trust—
But words we held and never freed,
And poems I was never meant to read.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
