We are the lucky ones, to have the outlet of poetry, both in the writing and the reading of, as a way to share our thoughts and feelings. I dare say there are plenty people would never imagine the words that dwell within us.


Revealing

We hide behind our words,
choosing to reveal through
rhyme or free verse
the truth of who we are -
the fears we carry,
the love we ache for,
the shadows of trauma
from which there is no escape.

Words written,
thoughts unveiled,
we are then free
to return to the masks we wear
to survive in a world
where difference
can mean rejection,
where emotions expressed
in tears or anger
meet disapproval,
where anxiety
in a world gone mad
is viewed as weakness.

We are the lucky ones -
the writers,
the artists,
the music makers,
the dancers.
Some use their talent
as catharsis from
the weight of work.
Others find a path
where career and passion marry,
masks set aside
to gather dust in silence.

There is no judgment here.
We weigh our feelings
and manage our thoughts,
then write -
untangling self to paper,
meted out in strings of words,
descriptive in power;
as stanzas form,
the poem complete,
the poet rests…
free.



Poetry by Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 121 times
Written on 2026-02-27 at 18:19

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melanie sue The PoetBay support member heart!
Yes! Yes. Yes-
THIS is very well expressed.
Yes, indeed- we are all given these gifts and blessed.
Freedom is finding it-
Embedded with
in our spirit.

I enjoyed reading this-
thank you for creating and sharing with us. 💗
2026-03-23


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Your words are strikingly correct. And hopefully what we write, will last for a very long time. But I wonder? Fifty years ago we would read our poetry from books, Those books are still around. The internet may have brought us many things, immediacy for one, world-wide distribution another, but in transferring from books, from the written page, to the monitor screen, I know for a fact that the longevity is lost. We certainly live in a throw away society in more ways than one, don't we. And we have become blase about the availability of poetry. We forget that being a poet is a lonely occupation. We forget to be grateful. Blessings, Allen
2026-03-01