Hard Truths Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

There is a difference in the blade—

the one built to sever,

and the one shaped to carve.

I have held both in my hands,

mistaking sharpness for care,

learning late that not all wounds

are necessary.

There is someone, I hope,

who sees through smoke-thick longing,

who hears my plans unraveled

not to criticize their shape

but to anchor their weight,

to measure them against the tide

instead of the moonlight.

I want someone who understands

the way truth balances on the tongue,

not as a trembling accusation,

not as a weapon to wield

for their own clean reflection,

but a gift they place in my lap:

warm, deliberate, heavy,

and meant to last.

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