3 result(s) for Poems About Feeling Incomplete.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
The Half-Lit Heart
Above the sleeping, silver sea,
the half-moon hangs, alone and bright,
a curve of light that wants to be
the whole of what it is tonight.
It wakes each dusk with patient grace,
and searches all the empty sky
for that lost arc, its missing place,
the other half that drifts on high.
I know that ache, the quiet spin
of reaching for a missing part,
the hollow where a self fits in,
the open door within my heart.
So shine, sweet moon, your broken light,
and I will shine my own as well;
we both are whole in our half-night,
and both still wait for what we sell.
Scattered Leaves
I walk the path where I once stood whole,
and find my pieces drifting, one by one,
like autumn leaves that loosen from their bough
and scatter where the wind has chosen to run.
A piece of me lies gold beneath a tree,
another caught in the river's slow retreat,
and one still clings, as brittle as a prayer,
to a branch that bends beneath the weight of sleet.
I gather what I can with trembling hands,
but every stooping step reveals more loss,
the gaps between my fragments widening
like hollows left by frost upon the moss.
Yet even fallen leaves still hold the shape
of what they were before the season turned,
and something in me knows the ground will keep
the pieces safe until the thaw has burned.
So I will walk until the path runs out,
and let the wind decide what it will bear,
for incomplete is just another way
of being scattered, and of being there.
Stitched Hollows
There is a hollow where my heart should be,
A quiet room with no one there to see.
I patch it with the thread of wishes spun,
But every stitch unravels with the sun.
I reach for names that never quite arrive,
And set a place for someone still alive
In distant towns I've never walked before,
Who hums a tune I've never heard before.
The seams pull tight against the nightly chill,
Yet longing threads the needle, steady still;
I sew by candle, lamp, and moon's pale gleam,
And hope is what I stitch into my seam.
So leave the hole, perhaps, a little wide,
For something lost may find its way inside.
I'll keep the needle warm, the thread in reach,
And mend the hollow with the things I teach.
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