Writers Jam

I read your poem and it feels like sitting in a room where time has forgotten its purpose where even hope has started pacing. You write waiting well. Too well. It doesn’t feel like a moment in your poem, it feels like a personality trait like you’ve built a home inside absence and decided to decorate it. There’s something quietly powerful in your stillness the pigeons not flying, the afternoons stretching thin you understand emptiness in a way that feels lived-in. But then- you rush. You move from longing to confrontation like you’re afraid of being caught too vulnerable. And I get it. But your poem pays the price for that fear. Because the line “Is it me or is it the game” doesn’t just ask a question, it opens a wound. And you almost look inside it. Almost. Instead, you turn away and throw blame like a shield and suddenly, the poem that was aching starts arguing. Your ending feels less like truth and more like defense. And here’s the thing - your softness was stronger. Far stronger than the need to prove a point. You don’t need to tell us they don’t understand you. We already believed you. But when you say it out loud, over and over, it starts to feel less like pain and more like insistence. Trust your quiet more. Because in your silence, you sound like someone we want to listen to. In your anger, you sound like someone trying not to be ignored. And maybe that’s the real poem not the one about waiting for someone else, but the one where you’re still waiting to be seen without having to raise your voice.