Tag Archives: poetry

The Sky To Me

There are some people who come into your life and feel like more than just a person — they feel like a force of nature.  They shift the air when they enter a room, they bring color to the gray, and they remind you that beauty can be found in both calm and chaos.  To love them is to feel both grounded and free, like standing beneath a vast, open sky that somehow knows your name.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I’m saying you are the breath that steadies me — the exhale that softens my edges and brings me home to calm. You are the quiet miracle that unfolds across the horizon, colors blooming like confessions at dawn. You are the shimmer of stars that pull me into wonder, the gentle breeze that wraps around me — cool, warm, and impossibly tender — like the memory of a touch I never want to fade.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I think of summer storms and their wild beauty — the violet clouds, the silver flashes that light the heavens, the thunder that feels like a heartbeat I’ve always known. You are that power — fierce, breathtaking, alive — and yet you are also the soft rain that falls against my skin, the reason I want to dance barefoot in the dark.

You are fireflies and starlight, thunder and lightning, every sunrise that dares to begin again, every sunset that aches with beauty. You are bright blue horizons and glowing moons — infinite, untamed, and the quiet ache between what is seen and what is felt.

When I say you’re the sky to me, I mean you are everything — vast and wild and endless — and still, somehow, you feel like home.

Because love, real love, isn’t about possession or perfection. It’s about awe. It’s about looking at someone and realizing they hold both the calm and the storm, the light and the shadow — and loving them for all of it.

I Never Knew

There are moments in healing when the past rises like smoke — not to haunt, but to be seen. For so long, I carried stories stitched in silence, believing pain was proof of love and endurance was safety. But healing has taught me to unlearn. To loosen the old knots of shame, to lift my gaze, to let creation become confession. When I draw, when I write, when I listen to the crows outside my window, I remember that truth has wings.

This poem is for the part of me that once hid, and for every woman learning to speak again — not in whispers, but in flight.

I never knew what I never knew.

Every word uttered, I accepted as true.

I built myself up to make you proud,

and tore myself down when you said I was too loud.

The higher I climbed, the harder I fell—

broken memories I’ll never tell.

⸻

Crow watches.

From the fence line of my memory, she tilts her head,

black eyes gleaming like obsidian truth.

She has seen this pattern before—

the fledgling mistaking the cage for sky.

She croaks a sound like warning, like mourning, like wake up.

⸻

Believing you were my guide,

believing you would stay by my side,

I took each onslaught to heart.

Every word, a lash and cut, slicing me apart.

The perfect doll, I sewed myself together

with needle and thread—

hiding with a razor under my bed.

I tear myself apart when you tell me I’m all wrong,

building up the walls inside to keep myself strong.

Poison infiltrates my mind.

⸻

Crow circles.

Feathers catch the wind like memory—

a dark shimmer of knowing.

She lands beside me, close enough to hear my breath.

“Release,” she whispers, “is not forgetting.

It is remembering without the chain.”

⸻

So I open my palms to the sky.

Ash, feather, thread—let them scatter.

What was once silence becomes song.

What was once fear becomes flight.

And the crow—

my witness, my teacher, my reflection—

rises.

So do I.

Light the Dark

Face the Sun. Be the Hope.

Visions play in her eyes,

A poignant cinema of her own life.

She dances in the past,

Praying history doesn’t last.

Targeted violence reincarnated,

Haunting cries with serrated edges.

Agony rains.

Shadows stain the walls of memory.

A crow lands on the edge of her window, silent but knowing. Its black feathers absorb the light, yet its eyes glimmer with an understanding she cannot name. It tilts its head, curious, patient, a witness to her storms.

His glance lands upon me, a crazed gaze,

A question burning:

Is she insane?

Lost in space, waiting in vain.

Shutters close on her eyes

Before an image she despises.

Scars illustrate a fate

That she’s finally ready to realize.

Another crow descends from the twilight sky, wings slicing through the dusk. It circles, calling softly, like a bell tolling for remembrance. Each caw reminds her: your pain is real, but it is not all that you are.

She lives in the darkness.

She is the light.

Dance with the stars.

Glow in the night.

She lives amongst the constellations,

A nebula falling like heaven’s consolation.

From the shadowed branches, crows gather. One steps forward, ruffling feathers in the cool night air. It perches boldly, meeting her gaze. Its presence whispers: courage. Watch. Learn. Transform. Each feather a lesson in resilience, each shadow a map of strength.

Her heartbeat aligns with the universe,

A rhythm pulsing through the cosmos.

Every scar, every cry,

A note in her symphony of survival.

The crows watch, always watch,

As if carrying the memory of her pain

And the promise of her flight.

She lifts her arms toward the moon,

Breathing the night into her lungs,

Exhaling fear, releasing sorrow.

She is not bound by yesterday.

She is starlight. She is wind.

She is hope incarnate.

A final crow lifts from the forest floor, ascending, wings spread wide. It vanishes into the constellation-strewn sky, a reminder: light the dark. Face the sun. Be the hope. You, too, can rise.