Healing Past Experiences With Poetry

When I was younger, I used to write poetry in the morning like some people must have their coffee. It was a daily ritual that I had to attend to, all the time overwhelmed with feelings and dreams. I wrote a lot of poems about every subject I cared to. I liked writing poems because I could make up the rules about how I would write it. Sometimes it would be a stream of consciousness that had flow, and yes, I called that a poem. Other times, it had a rhythm, a rhyme, a heartbeat coursing through my words.

The only time that I ever made any poetry public was in 7th grade. The assignment was to write a poem for each letter of the alphabet. How creative we wanted to get with it, was entirely up to us. This was the type of assignment that would light me on fire, and make my teachers stare at me in wonder. My theme was my favorite book series at the time, the Belgariad by David Eddings. I wrote each poem like a page in a book, and even made a cover that looked like the actual book covers of the series. My teacher loved it so much that she had it featured at a young writer's convention. I was very, very proud of the work I had done, until one person picked it up many years later, and called it cheesy. I destroyed it after that.

When people have called me overemotional in the past, I often feel like they weren't wrong. I'm still struggling with accepting myself, but each time I try, I get closer and closer to not needing other people. I think the more hurt I get, the easier it gets to let go of that need, and let go of the people who don't accept me.

The last time I attempted a poem:

These poems are about the above person who wasn't a fan of my writing. He was also a writer and he went off to do a lot of journalistic things with another girl who was way better at words than me. Let's just say, losing him was one of the biggest spirals that changed the course of my entire life. We had been together in high school for 2 years, and I knew him for much longer than that. When you don't know who you are, you define yourself by the people around you, and I had built my entire identity in him. For the longest time, he tried to tell me that there was nothing going on with this other girl that he talked about all the time. And then I read their messages... No, I don't think anyone is cheating on me right now. Recent events have brought up a similar feeling, but that feeling is just when my built in intuition system is getting dismissed as some variation of overreacting. Something just doesn't sit well and I'm not allowing myself to see it.

So yeah, anyway, cheesy to say the least, but it was a way that I liked releasing my very potent feelings. There's something about the structure of a rhyme that makes me feel safe, and when I find the perfect combination of words that flow together in harmony, it's like plugging my feelings directly into the universe with ease. I wish I had kept more, but the only reason this document is here is because I mistakenly misfiled it in a pictures folder. Oops.

I think it's time to try this again; to heal past experiences that continuously come up for me.

I'm only Safe in the Quiet

You say I’m wrong

for feeling this.

That my heart,

too loud,

too much,

misinterprets yet again.

But why do you hide the truth

like it’s poison in your hands?

Why does every question

pull anger from your mouth

instead of comfort?

Why does she always get your softness,

a flower you wouldn't dare press too hard,

and I am the stone

you sharpen yourself against?

We were supposed to be a team.

You tell me what I miss,

but what about what I carry?

This moment,

this pain,

this feeling I'm trying to name

RIGHT HERE.

I thought naming it

was the right thing.

But you’ve taught me

that silence

is safer than sincerity.

So I close up.

I fold in.

And I let the numbness take its shape.

You say I misunderstood.

You were angry

at everything else, 

but not me.

You'll never admit it was me.

But no one hears me.

Not really.

All the faces are the same, 

As they all attempt to rebuild me

They gather the pieces,

and put me back

with the wrong colors,

and the wrong shapes.

They mislabel the edges

and call it healing.

So I’ve learned to do it alone.

I gather myself gently,

word by word,

and bury my heart

in lines only I will ever read.

a locked garden

inside the page,

where no one misnames

what grows there.

It is only safe

in the quiet,

only safe

in the truth I write

for no one

but 

me.

I wanted to see this same poem rhymed, thanks ChatGPT.

Absolutely—I’d be honored to shape your poem into a rhyming version while preserving its emotional core. Here's a version that maintains your tone and message, now woven with rhyme:

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Only Safe in the Quiet (Rhymed Version)

I'm only safe in silent air,
You say I'm wrong to hurt, to care.
That my heart—too loud, too wide—
Once again has misapplied.

But why the truth behind your fist,
Like venom coiled in your wrist?
Why does every question burn,
And never draw your love's return?

Why does she get all your grace,
A bloom you touch but don’t displace—
While I’m the stone, cold and gray,
You sharpen all your rage away?

We were a team, or so I thought.
You point to all the things I’m not.
But what of all I’ve had to bear—
The weight I carry, always there?

This moment, this ache, this unnamed cry,
I hold it up beneath the sky.
I thought to name it was to heal,
But now I question what is real.

You've taught me truth is not allowed.
That silence wears a safer shroud.
So I retreat, I fold, I hide,
Let numbness settle deep inside.

You say it wasn’t aimed at me,
Just misplaced pain and misery.
But still you’ll never plainly say
It was my heart you threw away.

And no one hears me, not quite right,
Their faces blur, their touch too light.
They build me back with hands unsure,
Wrong colors, wrong shapes I endure.

They call it healing—misapplied—
Not knowing something deep has died.
So now I piece myself alone,
In quiet rooms, with thoughts my own.

I gather words, each line a thread,
To stitch the heart they left for dead.
I plant my pain in secret rows,
Where only I will know what grows.

A garden locked, a sacred page,
Immune to pity, safe from rage.
Where nothing false can breach the gate,
And truth is not up for debate.

It’s only safe in hush and hush,
Where wounds don’t bleed, and time won’t rush.
Where every verse belongs to me—
And silence is sincerity.