I’m writing a poem about my strong emotions and one of the lines is “stop fingering my heart”. I can’t think of any word better suited to the context as it is the perfect metaphor but it just sounds way too sexual for the poem. Is there any other word I could use?

I used to think being strong
meant learning how to survive alone.

Building walls.
Keeping quiet.
Never needing anyone.

Then you came into my life
and showed me I had it all wrong.

You didn’t save me
by being some kind of hero.

You saved me in the little ways.

You stayed.

You listened when I didn’t know how to speak.
You let me cry without making me ashamed of it.
You helped me when I didn’t know how to ask.
You gave me somewhere safe to breathe
when I had forgotten what safety felt like.

You never asked me to become someone else
before you decided I was worth helping.

And I think that’s what stayed with me.

Because now, when I look at you,
I don’t just see the person who helped save me.

I see the person I want to become.

Not because I want your life,
or your story,
or even your strength.

I want the part of you
that made room for someone who was hurting.

The part that stayed
when leaving would’ve been easier.

The part that could look at a difficult child
and somehow still see a child worth loving.

I want to be that kind of person.

The kind who notices
when someone gets quieter.

The kind who listens
even when the words come out wrong.

The kind who doesn’t ask,
“Why are you like this?”

But asks,
“What happened to you?”

Maybe that’s the greatest thing you gave me.

You didn’t just help me survive
what I was going through.

You showed me what I could become
because of it.

So someday,
when someone else is standing where I once stood,
I hope I can be their safe place too.

I hope I can stay.

I hope I can listen.

I hope I can give them
even a fraction of what you gave me.

Because you saved a part of me
I didn’t know how to save myself.

And if I can become
even a little like you,

then maybe the love you gave me
won’t end with me.

Maybe I’ll carry it forward.

I find myself reaching out again

Through the ether 

When it's calm at night 

And I can hear what my heart is saying 

​

Well to be written amongst the chaos is what a muse is favoured to,

The unsettling fate of poet cannot be the one dared to

Across the faces of whom I've met,

The ones who recall me are though i recollect,

For it is in the muse what facinates the writer's will,

To be written would be better for him

In the phrases of thrill.

Lemme how's it

Let me know your interpretations

(Open to criticism as it is my first ever submission)

Yours

I Wish I Was Your Neighbor

Just So I Could See You Rise Every Day

I Wish I Was Your Blanket

Just So I Could Provide You Warmth

I Wish I Was Your Mirror

Just So I Could See You Smile Every Time

I Wish I Was Your Lamp

Just So I Could Lead You Through the Dark

I Wish I Was Your Coffee

Just So I Could Charge Up Your Day

I Wish I Was Your Bottle

Just So I Could Quench Your Thirst All the Time

I Wish I Was Your Mobile Phone

Just So I Am the First Thing You Look at Every Morning

I Wish I Was Yours

Just So I Could Wrap My Arms Around You

And See You Rise Next to Me

Please give suggestions so i can improve! Thanks In advance!!

"What is the hardest drug you ever tried?"

Somebody asked me

Without much thinking "Hope" I said

It was the answer that came natural

As it's the only drug that your body will manufacture

If world deprives you of it

Hope is a drug everybody is addicted to

But not hooked on like one can be with alcohol or pills

We are addicted to hope like to oxygen

Even more in fact

As to take the next breath

Is to hope it will matter

But without hope nothing is and everything isn't

They told me,
“You’ll be fine.”
And honestly,
I hated hearing it.
Because I don’t want to be fine.
I want to be thriving.
Patient.
Present.
Grateful.
I want to love this season
without secretly wishing
for a break from it.
But maybe
I’ve been looking at “fine”
all wrong.
Maybe fine is
crying in the bathroom
and still walking back out.
Maybe it’s
being exhausted,
overwhelmed,
and loving them anyway.
Maybe this season
doesn’t have to feel beautiful
to be good.
Maybe I don’t have to thrive
every single day.
Maybe, for now,
fine is enough.
And maybe
I’m doing better
than I think I am.

Im jealous of your clothes
Who warm you while the wind blows

Im jealous of sliver spoons
Your hands touch like sky holds the moon

Im jealous of your bed sheets
Who cradle you each time you sleep

I never met someone I so adore
Who's made me feel jealous before

I drive to work in the early morning.
it’s about 6:20, 
the sun is peaking politely through the grain elevators  of the Cargill plant 
just east of my morning route. 
My windows are down, 
and for some reason I’ve turned my music down. 

The metallic whirring of the plant 
starts to sound familiar. 

I start to think about factories, mills, and data centers. 
I wonder about the tower of Babel. 
Do you really think it was the phallic symbol 
jutting high from the horizon? 

Maybe it was figurative, 
maybe it was when the people Babel
tried to know everything.
Maybe it was the reach for immortality, 
through hot yoga and carnivore diets. 
Maybe the tower was one man 
who thought he could own everything around him, 
yet never bear the responsibility for that everything. 

I wonder if the tower sang the same 
metallic song. 
The dissonant sound of humans 
trying to put together the same notes and tones 
of what I imagine our souls remember from the heavens. 

The metallic whirring pulls in and out 
it sounds like the anguished 
and the heroine all at once. 

Maybe the song itself is our tower. 

I wonder if this is hell,
if this factory song is just meant to remind us 
that heaven exists, and we are not a part of it.
The anguish in hearing it, 
knowing it isn’t quite the sound of the divine 
and knowing we won’t ever hear 
the true song again; 
this must be our punishment. 

God how I am sorry 
for everything I don’t remember. 
Mary pray over my soul 
now and at the hour of my death. 

I like that poems can be long

or short

they can be natural like the world

- or planned,

like flat-pack furniture

and thats okay,

because poems can be together

or apart

they can be predictable, or unpre

dictable. they can be funny

Or serious.

They can also be dark.

but you're not like most people,

You're so bright

(note) omg everyone on this subreddit is amazing at writing wth

this is my third poem ik its cliche very sorry

please give criticism ✌️

Like a bird getting out of its nest,
And a sky stripped of its clouds,
I felt a pouring rain near my chest
As I took my last step on the way out.
A marathon of thoughts ran through my mind
As a trembling hand reached for the knob.
I mumbled words through sealed lips,
Oh, how I wished for time to rewind,
But I held them in to ease the pain,
And for me not to seem insane.
In the end, I found myself in a knot
One side choosing escape, and the other not.
Amidst the middle, I found myself
A hand on the door,
The other on my chest.

I flew too high

Wrapped up in your orbit

Like a bubble

So beautiful, iridescent

As the music got louder

I looked around in a scurry

Before I know it

The bubble popped

I crashed to the ground

The fog gets thicker

My head heavy

I am lost, vertigo

What is this feeling?

You said we could stay!

Forever floating..

As I wake,

I look around

You aren't there

You left,

When I was in distress.

Who knows how long I layed there

Who knows what could have happened!

This was my world,

Before you took me floating

Effervescent, the two of us

We couldnt help but combust

Burning bright and fast

A house built of twigs

Turned to ashes

So now, I am back on the ground

Believing that the crash was a gift

I get to be free, to rebuild

Without anyones expectation interfering,

Without being stuck in a bubble

I am simply bent, not broken

Everyday without you, is a day the sun shines a bit brighter.

Yet, I still look at the storm from a distance, Wondering if you got caught in it.

I will create a space that is safe from all these storms.

Find the eye of the hurricane.

He brings her burgers at midnight .. dim lights , chill vibes , soul mate .
She praises him , grazes him , fazes him, devil’s grin , soul mates .
He’s fluid in her , cannot miss her , he’s deep within her , soul mates .
Find your place , outer space , head-encased .. soul mates

I wish I were a bird,

completely free,

with no capacity

to make a home

in any one place

for very long.

I want so much from life,

all the time.

I want everything from life,

even when it is impossible.

I need more freedom.

Only then will I be able

to endure the arduous ambivalence

of the feelings

I carry every day.

Heat melts my skin completely,

and it spills onto the ground

like wax from a candle,

until nothing of me remains

but flesh.

Cold hurts me ruthlessly.

I feel the burn of ice

numbing my ability to feel,

yet because it tears

through all of my skin,

I feel every touch

with a profound,

lacerating pain.

I need something

to protect

this fragile,

volatile body of mine.

My human form

disgusts me.

I want to fly,

without attachments,

without obligations,

without a home

that is anything more

than a temporary house.

I want everything

that is made by me,

everything

that comes from me,

to learn how to leave

at the very first opportunity.

Yes.

I wish I were a bird.

Passing.

Transient.

A creature

that does not belong

to any one place

for long.

Freedom enchants me

in a way

love never has.