7 Poems about Life for the Broken Hearted

7 Poems about Life for the Broken Hearted

This week has been full of uncertain grey clouds, and a restlessly burning sun. It has also been a very mellow week for me. It has been full of feeling and reflecting, and some days feeling nothing at all. While trying to rekindle my spark, I was reading an article on BBC about tips on being a successful poet and number one on the list stood out to me the most; Let your subject find you. I pondered and asked myself what my subject as a writer is. I wrote my first ever poem in 2006 after moving from Miami to London.  I was in this new grey city, my self-esteem was low, I hated my skin, my best friend didn’t love me anymore and I was lonely.  I started writing pain poems. I poured my pain into my pen and sought light in the reflection of each page. Since then, I have written about pain, struggle, and the infinite need to find light. There is something so powerful about pain- perhaps its ability to transform.  The only place I am able to be vulnerable is when I write, and I believe that is why I’m able to connect with people. I write from a place of honesty, so I think it gives people the courage to connect and be vulnerable also.

This week’s adventure was a little different as it was one that took place internally. Less of an adventure, and more of an on-going journey I suppose. Here is a recap of my week in 7 very short poems about life.



She took out a tattered atlas

Gently opened it at the center

Ran her blistered fingers across the pages

And showed him every part of her world

That was shattered.



Touch me

Make me feel something


Even if it’s only

The sharp edges of broken pieces

The prick of rose thorns

The heat of coals under my feet

Just touch me

And remove this tormenting numbness

From my soul



Nobody warned her

That madness looked like

The warped face of happiness

Smiling mouths that weep

Dancing flowers without stems

Stars that only shine at night

Hidden colours in rainbows

And the dying words of saints.



There is no perfection in art,

Just the connecting of broken pieces

To create something whole



What’s all of this talk of soul connecting?

What’s all of this murmuring about trust?

Stick your hand inside of your throat

And show me all of the imprisoned words

You’ve been choking on 

Show me where it’s broken

Run your splintered finger across it

Now don’t do that again

Don’t touch that again

Don’t be that again.




She is the deafening voice

Resounding in your spirit

The internal compass

Pointing you in the direction

Of all the pain in the world


 ‘’It hurts there; heal it.’’

‘’It’s dead here; resurrect it.”

“It’s broken here; fix it.”


The only life she knew

Existed in the middle

of a creative dessert

Where she desperately searched

For paint and

Yearned for drums and symbols

Loud enough

For the deceased in the dessert

To hear the very moment

That art would make her

Forever immortal.

This week I have once again been reminded of my purpose. I didn’t choose creativity. I never imagined intuition and a whistling voice in the wilderness would be what would order my steps …Listen to your gut, follow your instincts. If your peace isn’t present in the very place you are, at this very moment, you’re in the wrong place.

Until next week;

Love, light and chocolate kisses. <3 :*