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Have you ever had one thing you’ve loved since you were young that still knows how to save you?
For me, that thing has always been poetry.
I’ve been writing poems since I was little, back when my world felt too loud and my options felt too small. I didn’t have the vocabulary for “coping” yet. I just knew that when I wrote, I could breathe again.
Poetry gave me somewhere to put feelings I couldn’t explain out loud. It let me take whatever my reality was that day and turn it into something I could hold, understand, and survive. Sometimes it was pain on paper. Sometimes it was hope. Most of the time it was both.
What I loved most was how it helped me imagine forward.
Even when everything around me looked stuck, a few lines could pull me into a better future. Not perfection. Just progress. A version of life where I’m still here, still moving, still becoming someone stronger than my surroundings.
I don’t always share my poems, because they’re personal in a way normal writing isn’t. A poem feels like a fingerprint. But every once in a while, one comes out of me that deserves daylight.
Before I share the poem that I thought of today,
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Okay, now let’s get back to where we left off ❤
Here’s one that came to me the first time the snow hit and all I could see was white.
When the World Turns White
Nothing but white,
that’s all I see when it snows,
like the world got erased
and nobody asked if I wanted a blank page.
The streets go quiet
in a way that feels personal,
like the sky is holding its breath
and I’m supposed to do the same.
Snow has its own kind of beauty,
but it also creates distance,
a cold hand over the details,
a mute button on my spirit.
It makes me miss summer,
those long nights at the beach
when time loosened its grip
and the day refused to end.
The sun stayed out late,
and we stayed out with it,
salt in the air,
music drifting from somewhere nearby,
laughter carrying farther than it should.
I miss how easy it was
to be present,
to sit in a moment
without trying to shape it into something else.
Now the snow falls
and everything turns to blankness,
and I catch myself reaching
for any color I can remember.
So I keep summer close,
not as a place,
as a feeling I can rebuild.
A warm light in the room.
A song that brings July back.
A memory that still has heat in it.
If the world insists on white,
I’ll answer with my own colors.
Jay