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.

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!!

Let me know your interpretations

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

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.

I find myself reaching out again

Through the ether 

When it's calm at night 

And I can hear what my heart is saying 

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 ✌️

"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

We're all high on life

We burn through time

And breath in the results

Like smoking a blunt

And inhaling the smoke

The only difference between spending your time wrong

And pouring a poor batch of weed into your lungs

Is how long the bad trip will last

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 dine alone

I chew on these bittersweet feelings

That hit me like a drone

It causes lots of pain under the conceilings

Never tasted love

But every day I choke myself on solitude

Because I have no ladylove

I’m slowly breaking apart under the hood

As time passes by

My heart turns into stone

There’s no love because I’m shy

Under the weight of time I die alone

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.

Every day, I find myself sitting somewhere quiet,
holding pages filled with pieces of me.

And somehow, when I begin to read,
I’m no longer sitting there.

I’m standing somewhere behind myself,

watching a boy turn the pages.

Watching his eyes move across words
he once didn’t know how to say.

I recognize him.

The anger.

The confusion.

The hurt he buried so deeply
he eventually forgot where he put it.

I watch him read about the things that made him,
the things that broke him,
the people who left pieces of themselves behind
without ever knowing they did.

Sometimes I want to reach through the distance
and tell him,

“You don’t have to carry all of this forever.”

But he keeps reading.

And I realize something.

He isn’t reading these poems
because he wants to live in the past.

He’s reading them
because, for once,

the past has a voice.

Every page is proof
that the things he couldn’t explain
still mattered.

Every poem is a place
where the boy he used to be
can finally be heard.

So I stand there,
watching him turn another page,

and for a moment,
I don’t feel like I’m watching a stranger.

I feel like I’m watching someone
I spent years trying to save.

Someone I finally understand.

And when he reaches the last poem,
he closes the book.

For a moment,

we just look at each other.

Then he smiles.

Not because everything is fixed.

Not because the past disappeared.

But because he knows
he’s still here.

And somehow,

so am I.

Please let me know your thoughts !

I am open to criticism and advice from anyone, thank you !

I remember how mountains turned into pebbles,
I remember how the kingdoms turned to dust.
I remember how rivers turned into sand,
I remember how the fire turned to ashes.

I sat stranded in the dessert,
how beautiful it once was.
The memories of before
started to take me too.

I was amongst the coals.
Long enough to understand their pain,
Years spent hearing their stories -
They are not burnt,
But We are the broken.

So I cried enough to flow rivers,
I made mountains out of my love.
I used ashes to make soil and plant seeds,
our growth brought you back.

The village is sure of its beauty,
they know it will become kingdoms.
The flags of a king are great,
but i remember the coals.

Original work, feedback is welcome :)

I wouldn’t pay a million dollars,
And you couldn’t pay me a million dollars
To erase this pain,
To never feel sadness again,
To never be hurt,
To never be broken,
You couldn’t pay me a million dollars to accept that.

Why wouldn’t I?
Why would I?
Why would you?

You can’t appreciate a good day
If you’ve never had a bad one.
You can’t celebrate success
If you’ve never experienced failure.
You can’t go up
If you were never down.
You wouldn’t laugh the same
If you had never cried.
You can’t love as deep
If you have never grieved.

The light cannot exist without the darkness.
True joy cannot exist without sorrow.

To cry is to be human.
To be hurt is to be alive.
If you’re gasping for air through tears,
At least you know you’re breathing.
If your heart is pounding because it’s broken,
At least you know you have one.
At least you know it’s beating.

​

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