We were taught silence like Sunday hymns.
Toughen your skin until it gleams, unbroken.
Swallow grief whole without tasting its sting.
Fold rage into corners no one cleans.
A legerdemain of emotions, neat and hidden,
like unpaid bills under the kitchen jars.
They told us, feeling is fine, just function.
Turn your fear into a tool for the day.
Still, my mother peeled potatoes while crying.
My father mowed lawns with fury in stride.
We lit candles for joy without lighting ourselves.
We mourned loudly, but inside our own ribs.
The trick was mourning, not stopping for it.
The art of existing anyway, despite the ache.
We learned to feel and still get things done.
But we never quite learned to feel aloud.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Online) - Published: December 31st, 2025 05:10
- Comment from author about the poem: #5 in the series growing up in the 60's and 70's Happy New Year 🎊🎊
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Friendship
Online)
Comments2
I was there and learned all the rules of feeling the pain but not showing it. Alas time has past and these rules have been changed mid game. Now there is a new referee in town and the game is fixed. Loved the poem with such vivid and great lines that feel so real and home. Well done Gray and a fave
Thanks for sharing your feedback Soren I appreciate it. Happy New Year brother
You are most welcome and a Happy New Year to you
Well written, your story revolves around the complexity of human emotions, particularly the struggle to express grief and pain while maintaining a facade of functionality and strength. The poet delves into the cultural and familial conditioning that discourages open emotional expression, highlighting the tension between feeling deeply and adhering to societal expectations of resilience and productivity.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.