Poetry
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You know those moments in conversation when someone pauses, and that pause says more than words ever could? Poetry knows about those moments. Poetry lives in those moments. Take my poem “Ghosts of children linger.” When I write: Forlorn in hollow silence alone in a dusty attic haunting barren halls gloomy desolate corridors See how
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Sometimes words fail us. Regular writing—you know, the kind with nice neat sentences all lined up in tidy rows—just can’t capture how trauma actually feels. How it fragments everything. How it makes time skip and stutter like a scratched record. (And don’t even get me started on trying to explain it to therapists.) But poetry?
cynthia loves poetry 