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I yearn for a chain of moments to be myself
By myself
Just me and no one else
Why then do I put those thoughts in a jar
With no air holes
On an out of reach shelf?
And expect it not to
Affect my mental health
Solitary has it's value
While family and popularity
Can be an overvalued wealth

©2025
The wind bears witness, crying as it blows,
Yet cannot answer, cannot promise when my love will return.
I wished to welcome him home, but all that ship brought back was sorrow.
I pray—I call—yet fate still turns the same.

Each night I kneel, my vow beneath the sky.
I whisper love, I beg the stars to weave his path home,
Yet morning breaks, and distance still divides.
The waves unyielding—bound by fate’s cruel rage.

They say my love was weak, was mute, was small.
They mistook silence for emptiness—as if words could prove love’s depth.
I do not owe them proof — Only to my love, I shall call.
My grief lingers, drowns, and cleaves itself from breath.
Rumors may lie, but on our behalf, the wind still pleads.
I've always been waiting, Ceyx— heed.

"You failed him," they whisper through the rain.
"You let him go—you sealed his fate."
Yet my hands tremble, failing to reach you.
My love remains. For you, alone, I still wait.

Ceyx, I call, if echoes reach beyond—
Do not believe the lies they whisper across water.
Your name still lingers soft upon my tongue.
Through night and day, my love still remains.

Ceyx. Ceyx. Ceyx.
I speak your name, though only the wind knows.
I call—but the tide does not return your soul.
I will not go. I will not let love drown.

Ceyx. Ceyx. Ceyx.
I swore, I swear, my love won’t fade.
If time dissolves, if fate decrees,
Still, I won’t let them take. Still, I’ll always wait.
A third cry carried upon 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔—but sorrow speaks in silence.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Lonely, waiting, watching deep,
Praying as the tempests rise,
Losing hope where shadows creep,
Don’t you leave him — heed his cries.

Alcyone, don’t you stray,
Alcyone, trust his vow.
He longs to whisper, bid you stay,
Yet the tide won’t let him now.

He loves you true, but he is gone,
The sea demands its toll.
He cannot hold you when the dawn
Fades beyond waters cold.

You turned away, betrayed his trust,
Abandoned love so pure.
Now his fate is ocean rust,
A dream that won’t endure.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He prayed beneath the moon.
Yet the sea knew you’d turn away,
And now the waves consume.

He wished to say he loved you still,
Even through the salty spray.
Why could you not just wait until,
He found a way to stay?

He bent upon his weary knee,
A ring within his grasp.
Yet you left him lost at sea,
A vow drowned in the past.

All the sailors found embrace,
Returned to waiting arms.
But he, forsaken, cast away,
Claimed by whispers where specters mark.

"Let me see Alcyone,"
He whispered every night.
He prayed, but you did not believe,
And so, to ghosts, he paid the price.

He loved with faith, his heart was whole,
Yet was your love the same?
Did longing ache for him alone,
Or did you covet but his name?

Your sorrow is the hollow storm,
That stole his final breath.
You cry now, but guilt is born,
You let him drift to death.

Why did you leave, Alcyone?
He never chose the sea.
He parted to build a life for you,
Yet you let him cease to be.

Look upon the wreckage now,
The love you cast aside.
He did this for you, yet fate allowed
His ruin in the tide.

Listen, Alcyone, do not pretend,
You cannot play the part.
We all know it was you, in the end,
The one who stopped his heart.
One breath among 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Alcyone, my heart is yours alone,
Though waves may pull me, tearing love from shore.
Beneath the storm, the sea may drag my body,
Yet love defies the tide, it fights once more.

Fate’s hand may tear my flesh from bone,
Yet still, my soul resists the reaper’s sweep.
I will not cross where silence makes its home,
Not yet, my love. I vowed—and vows I keep.

You pull my body, drag me toward the black,
Yet love remains, though flesh may fall away.
I beg no mercy, ask no solemn pact,
For I am hers, I am bound to stay.
The tide may take, the wind may plead,
But I will not depart—Alcyone, heed.

Not yet. Not yet. Death calls, but I won’t go.
The sea may tear, but I am not undone.
A shadow lingers—whispered hands pull slow,
Yet love remains. I stay. My heart is one.

Alcyone, I call—do you still hear?
The tide may claim my breath, but not my name.
Not yet. Not yet. My vow will not disappear.
I swore, and I swear still. I’ll remain.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I speak your name, though water fills my throat.
The tide may take, the reaper calls—
I will not go. I will not go.

Alcyone. Alcyone. Alcyone.
I swore, I swear, I will not fade.
If time dissolves, if fate decrees—
Still, my soul remains. Still, my soul remains.
A second voice carried upon 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑊𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔—yet echoes deceive the ear.


https://hellopoetry.com/collection/136314/the-wings-of-waiting/
Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.

Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.

Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.

Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”

Cisza.

Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.


BROKEN HEARTS

Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.

A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…

The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.

The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.

Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.

Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.

It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.

That is how it must be.

Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.

And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:

My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.

He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.

He survived to love and to be loved.
Today, I participated in the commemoration of the children’s labor camp in Łódź, which operated during World War II.
Writing about it isn't easy. Remaining silent is even harder.
I wrote this reflection two hours ago.
It was inspired by the memorial sculpture Pęknięte Serce (Broken Heart), unveiled on June 2nd, 1971, in Łódź.
There is no excuse and there will never be for violence against
the defenseless.
Any system, any religion, any doctrine that does not protect children is
a failure.
"Money can't buy everything."
Oh, sure it can.
"It can't buy happiness,
It can't buy friends."
Of course it can.
"Perhaps you're right,
But they'll never be real."

So what?

Math is fake,
Economics is fake,
Language is fake,
And yet,

It is what's fake that allows us to cooperate.

"But money corrupts!"
For sure, so what?
My friend was earned, not bought
By kindness, not cash.
Yet still, for twelve years we have been
Fake friends.
And one day she left
Because my value was spent.
I don't need money to have fake things.
I can get those for free.
"But why would you?"
Because it meant something to me,

Real or not.

"Oh, but money is greed."
Of course, greed is as certain as gravity.
So why did the tree fall?
"Gravity, of course!"
As if gravity wasn't there when it stood for forty years.
Ah, right.

Perhaps it was the axe.

So, why did my friend leave?
Certainly not greed,
That was there when we got along.
"Because she was fake!"
As if she wasn't fake for twelve years.
Ah, right.
Perhaps it was...

Well I'm not sure, you'll have to ask her.

I buy fake jewelry.
Because I can't afford the real thing.
And I care not for luxury,
So long as the substitute won't turn my skin green.
And even then,
With a clear coat of polish,
I'm satisfied and the goal is accomplished.

So what if it's fake, it's still pretty to me.


𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥,
𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐎𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬,
𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥,
𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫
𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐈 𝐭𝐨 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞?
𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐬 𝐈 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞.
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