The Women Who Write
Paula bends ink around her scars,
each sentence a lantern against the dark.
Adira stitches silence into syllables,
her untrembling hands teaching paper how to listen.
Willow leans against the page like a tree in storm,
roots deep though limbs still ache.
Crimsin gathers words the way others gather breath,
a survival, a rhythm, a secret hymn.
Green and Fia tip their pens like a stem toward light,
even when shadow presses heavy.
Sapho leaves fragments of ancient flame,
reminding us that love, even shattered, still burns.
And so many more—sisters of story,
women whose pain became ink,
whose voice rose from the rubble
not to be polished, but to be true.
How I would cherish a coffee with you
to sit inside the warmth of steam and laughter,
to cradle the mug as you cradle your heart,
to look into your eyes and not look away.
No need for polished lines
your presence would be the poem itself.
I meet you most days
between the commas,
where grief bows to resilience,
where words soften into friendship,
and where the ache one carries
is lightened.
Â
It’s always an honor to know that someone reads your words and understands. I appreciated this so much and it was beautiful in its own right.
hello dearest Benny this is so incrediably beautiful thank you for seeing me and us poetesses I was having an anxious day and this improved it with its tenderness đŸ’•
Peace to you always đŸ™
Thank youđŸ™
I’m honored!
So am I ….đŸ™
Speechless…
So often we feel unheard & unseen. Men & women both. This touchd a place in me that needed prodding. Thank you for seeing us
I don’t leave many women speechless….I’m flattered that I rendered you mute.
Thanks for reading.đŸ’‹