Sunshine Poets
Sunshine Poets
We are the ones who write in gold,
who dip our pens in liquid dawn
and spill it across the broken world—
not to hide the cracks, but make them holy.
They call us naïve, these sunshine poets,
as if hope were a weakness,
as if to see light were to be blind
to all the gathering dark.
But we have walked through midnight too.
We know the weight of shadows,
the taste of ash, the way grief
can hollow out your chest until
you’re nothing but an echo of yourself.
Still, we choose the sun.
Not because we don’t see the storm clouds,
but because we’ve learned that light
doesn’t erase the darkness—
it reveals what lives inside it:
the shape of your own endurance,
the outline of tomorrow,
the seeds that only split open
when buried deep in earth.
We write of resilience not as escape
but as the hardest work there is—
to tend the garden when the floods come,
to sing when your voice breaks,
to believe in bridges while
the world is burning them.
They say we’re foolish, these sunshine poets,
for speaking beauty into the void,
for insisting that a single flower
pushing through concrete
means something.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe courage isn’t the absence of fear—
it’s planting words like seeds
in the scorched ground of now,
watering them with stubborn faith
that somewhere, someone
will need this light we’ve left behind.
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