There’s a kind of sight that isn’t learned
from brightness or from perfect days,
but from looking long enough
at ordinary, tangled ways.
It notices the softer signals
hiding in what others miss—
the pause before a sharp reply,
the quiet behind a dismiss.
It sees the tired trying harder,
the guarded heart still choosing stay,
the imperfect hands still reaching
even when they pull away.
Not every flaw disappears in it,
not every story turns out clean,
but something shifts in how you hold
what “broken” might have meant to mean.
Because people are not just their sharpest edges,
not just the words they say in pain—
they’re also the small repairs they make
when no one’s watching them again.
So you learn to look for flickers,
for the almost-hidden light,
the good that doesn’t ask to be believed
but keeps on living out of sight.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda marie
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What a beautiful and perceptive poem, Brenda. You’ve captured the quiet wisdom that comes not from chasing light, but from truly seeing—the kind of seeing that forgives, that stays, that makes room for tenderness in the tangled and the torn. This is a gift to anyone who’s ever felt unseen. Thank you for writing it.🌷🤝
Thank you so much for this thoughtful and generous response. Your words mean a great deal to me. I’m especially moved by how you described “the kind of seeing that forgives, that stays”—that’s exactly the quiet space I was hoping the poem might open. Knowing it resonated with you, and might offer something to others who’ve felt unseen, is deeply encouraging. I’m truly grateful you took the time to share this. 🌷
You are always welcome Brenda 🌷