Ink stained Heart 🖤

"Bleeding words onto the page. Poetry that comes from the heart, for the heart"

[ache-written]

TWILIGHT OF THE DREAMER

In the pale hush of the white nights,

the city breathes like a half-forgotten song.

Loneliness drifts through empty streets,

yet the heart clings to a fragile hope—

that even a fleeting embrace can outshine eternity.

But within another chamber,

a body bends into grotesque silence.

The world recoils from its strangeness,

and love, once imagined as salvation,

becomes a mirror of rejection.

The dreamer and the insect share a truth:

to be human is to ache for connection,

to stretch toward warmth even as the world

turns its gaze away,

leaving shadows where tenderness once lived.

Yet sorrow is not without light.

For in the brief touch of a hand,

or the memory of a night unbroken,

there lies resistance against despair—

a reminder that even in transformation,

the soul still longs to be seen.

And so, between night and shell,

between dream and exile,

the heart whispers:

to love, even once,

is to remain human forever.

If this poem stirred something in you, I share more daily reflections on love, solitude, and resilience.

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[ache-written]

On the edge of the world,

where silence is heavier than snow,

a lone figure waits— feathers against frost,

heart against the endless question:

But why?

Why do we rise each morning

to face the cold winds of doubt?

Why do we carry our fragile selves

into storms that never promise shelter?

Perhaps it is because

the soul is stubborn—it longs to be seen,

to leave a trace on the ice, to whisper into the mist:

“I was here. I endured. I loved.”

And in that whisper, the emptiness softens.

The question becomes a song.

The solitude becomes a mirror.

The pain becomes proof that even in desolation,

life still burns with meaning.

So the penguin stands, not as a creature lost,

but as a witness— to the beauty of persistence,

to the poetry of survival, to the quiet courage

of asking, again and again,

But why?

Sometimes the coldest landscapes hold the deepest truths.

If this poem stirred something in you, I share more daily reflections on love, solitude, and resilience.

✨ Follow my Instagram page [unclaimedwords]for soulful lines and poetic reels ✨

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[ache-written]

💔 I STILL WAIT FOR YOU

I gave you my heart, you turned away, Yet my love for you grows every day. You said no, and I felt the pain, But still I wait, through sun and rain.

I see your smile in every dream, Even if it’s not for me, it seems. The world tells me to let you go, But my heart whispers, “I still love her so.”

You walk ahead, I stay behind, Hoping one day you’ll change your mind. Even if you never do, I’ll keep my promise—I’ll wait for you.

Love is not about winning or pride, It’s standing strong, with arms open wide. Though rejected, broken, and torn apart, You’ll always live inside my heart.

So if the years pass, and nothing’s new, I’ll still be here, waiting for you.

[ache-written]

She entered my life

like a forgotten melody—

not loud, not sudden,

but the kind that lingers

in the silence between heartbeats.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Her presence was a verse

my soul had been waiting to read

since before it knew language.

The way her hair fell—

like dusk over a quiet lake.

The way her eyes held the world—

not to judge it, but to forgive it.

I’ve seen beauty—

but she made beauty feel

like it had been rehearsing

for centuries just to become her.

Since then,

every sunset feels borrowed

from the way she smiled.

Every poem I write is a quiet offering

to the moment she became real.

I don’t know her name.

but I know the ache she left—

a soft, golden wound

that asks nothing

but to be worthy of her return.

And if love is a moment

that stretches across lifetimes,

then mine began

One year ago

when she walked by

and didn’t even look back.

[ache-written]

THE ONE WHO LOVES TOO HARD

For the soul who sails across oceans

to reach a shore where no one waits,

who remembers joy in someone else's silence.

For the name on their guest list

while you made them the headline of your story,

for the one-call-away who’s always the last to be called.

For the everything you became

in a heart that never wanted you at all,

for the love that was never returned but always given.

You love. You fall. You break.

You burn. You rise. You bloom again—

like love was the only language you ever learned to speak.

And still, you speak it fluently,

because the easiest love is tested hardest,

and the hardest trials reveal the purest hearts.

So be that person—

the one who loves loudly like thunder in a quiet sky,

the one who loves fiercely like roots gripping earth in a storm.

Be the one who loves wholeheartedly,

like the moon loves the tide without needing to be asked,

like the sun shows up even when no one looks up.

Be the one they whisper about:

“he loved too much,” they’ll say—

and let them whisper, let them ache, let them wonder.

Because loving too hard is not a flaw,

it’s a flame that teaches the cold how to feel,

and you, you are the fire that never dies.

[ache-written]

THE VOID THAT BECAME ME

Ever since you left, a silence moved in—

not the kind that hums like hunger,

but the kind that devours.

It doesn’t growl like an empty stomach,

doesn’t fade when I starve myself of joy.

No, this void is patient—

it scrapes me clean from the inside out,

a surgeon with claws, an echo with hooks.

It climbs my chest like ivy, wraps around my throat, tightens with every memory

of what we almost were.

I wear the loss like a second skin, stitched from could-have-beens, dyed in the ink of never-will-be.

It drips from my fingers, when I reach for sleep,

and pools in my lungs, when I try to breathe.

This void is not absence—it is presence,

loud and unrelenting.

It is the echo of your name

in rooms you’ve never entered,

the ghost of your touch

on skin you no longer claim.

It is my ending—the collapse of every version of me that loved you.

And it is my beginning— the birth of someone

who knows how to live with a hollow heart

and still keep walking.

[ache-written]

There's a whisper in my soul, a yearning for someone I've never seen. Yet, I sit here, penning these words, trusting they'll drift across the universe to find you.

Do you ever pause, feeling a quiet tug in your heart for someone you haven't met? I do. I collect fleeting moments a starlit sky, a fleeting laugh, a thought that lingers and imagine sharing them with you, thinking, This would mean more with you here. I don't know your name or where you walk, but I carry faith in you.

Some nights, when the world feels heavy, I picture you beside me. Not with grand promises or polished words, but simply your presence your voice asking about my day, your quiet way of making my smallest joys feel enough.

The world chases quick sparks, but I crave something deeper. A love where your nearness feels like home, where a single glance carries the weight of forever. A love that, even after a lifetime, still stirs my heart because it's you.

That's why I write. That's why I wait. Somewhere, I know you're searching too, carving your path toward me. So, wherever you are under tonight's sky, keep moving forward. Keep seeking. I promise you'll never feel like you arrived too late. I'll keep holding space for you, until the day we meet.

[ache-written]

“WHERE THE SKY STILL KNOWS MY NAME”

The sky spills gold across the clouds,

like it’s trying to console me—

soft light for a heart that never got to speak.

You always said sunsets were beautiful,

but I watched them wondering

if you ever saw me in their glow.

A bird arcs through the hush,

its wings slicing through the stillness—

and I wonder if it flies toward someone

who waits for it,

the way I waited for you.

We never stood here together. Not really.

You were near,

but your thoughts were elsewhere,

and I learned to love you

in the spaces you didn’t notice.

never heard the laughter

I imagined we’d share.

But I held you in poems,

in glances,

in the quiet ache

Love, for me,

was the silence between your words,

the way your smile

lit up someone else’s name.

I never interrupted.

I just stayed—

like dusk,

soft and inevitable.

Breakups don’t come

when love was never mutual.

They come as realizations,

as slow sunsets

that teach you

how to let go

of something you never held.

Now I write to the sky,

hoping it still remembers

how I loved you

without needing you to know.

How I traced your joy

like constellations

I couldn’t touch.

And maybe the bird

carries my name

in its flight,

maybe the light bends

around my longing

just enough

to make it beautiful.

Because some goodbyes

aren’t spoken—

they’re just the sky

learning how to cradle

a love that never asked

to be returned.

[ache-written]

The silence screams where laughter used to bloom, A hollow echo in this empty room. My heart, a shattered vase, the pieces strewn, Reflecting fragments of a fading moon.

Each breath a weight, a burden hard to bear, A constant ache, a love beyond compare, Now lost to whispers on the chilling air, A ghost of touch, a memory to ensnare.

The world's a canvas, painted shades of gray, Where vibrant hues have withered and decay. The sun's warm kiss now feels a distant ray, As shadows lengthen at the close of day.

I trace your name in dust upon the pane, A phantom touch, a lingering refrain. The ghost of you, a sweet and searing pain, A love I lost, a love I can't regain.

Yet in this wreckage, a new dawn may start, To mend the cracks within my wounded heart. Though scars remain, they'll play a vital part, In shaping strength, a brand new work of art.