Author: Clara Wren
Leaves spiral down like whispered secrets,
a final bow to summer’s stage.
The wind carries them,
soft and relentless,
toward the earth that waits silently,
patient, eternal.
Category:
Poetry
Author: Anonymous
In a corner of the morning,
where the dew still holds the light,
softly hums a world in waiting,
tucked between the day and night.
Beneath the hush of willow trees,
the shadows stretch, but never race—
time forgets its hurried rhythm
in this gentle, breathing place.
The sun comes in on tiptoe feet,
painting gold on blades of green,
and every leaf, with secrets held,
tells stories that the stars have seen.
No need for maps or measured miles,
no questions carved in stone or bone—
just the simple truth of silence,
and the wonder of the known.
So if you find the world too loud,
or paths too tangled to compose,
step into the hush of morning,
and rest where the quiet grows.
Author: Marcus Lee
Behind the dented locker door
is a universe
gum wrappers,
half a friendship bracelet,
and a folded note that says
“Don’t forget me.”
We swore we’d stay the same,
but time kept walking faster.
Now, years later,
I still know the combination
2-1-3
but when I twist the dial
nothing opens anymore.
Author: Shrine Romero
After the rain,
the world remembers how to breathe.
Pavement shines
like it’s proud of its scars,
and the sky turns
a kind of blue that doesn’t exist
anywhere else
the color of forgiveness.
I step outside barefoot,
and the earth hums beneath me,
alive again,
as if saying,
You made it through.
Author: Thomas Elroy
Books were gone, the city said,
but Grandma hid a card instead.
I found a door behind a wall,
inside were books, big and small.
I read them all, they spoke to me,
stories alive, wild and free.
The library’s card pulsed in my hand,
a secret place, a magic land.
Author: Clara Mendoza
The train hums like a heart beneath the city.
I count the faces,
each one somewhere else
a dream half-remembered,
a deadline, a fight.
When the doors open,
we all breathe the same stale air,
pretend not to notice
how close we are
to being the same person
in different shoes.
Author: Maya Chen
You told me love was like a circle,
infinite, no edges, no start or end.
But I think it’s more like a triangle
me, you, and the silence
filling the third point.
We keep measuring angles
that don’t add up to 180.
Our sides don’t align,
but I keep trying to find
the area of something
that was never flat to begin with.