Reflection Self Poems | Examples
These Reflection Self poems are examples of Self poems about Reflection. These are the best examples of Self Reflection poems written by international poets.
A single pill rests on the counter--
quiet, small, almost polite.
I told myself it would stay that way.
But days grew thinner,
hours frayed at the edges
and the quiet promise began to hiss.
Friends laughed. I nodded.
My reflection wavered in the glass,
someone familiar yet gone.
The pull was slow - like water eroding stone,
soft at first, then urgent, unstoppable.
I chased the calm it offered,
unmindful of the shadows it left behind,
the nights pulsing with my heartbeat,
the mornings hollowed and quiet.
One day, I reached for air instead...
for the sharp taste of morning,
for voices that held me without judgment,
for a hand that said;
“You are not this. You are still you.”
Healing does not arrive in a flare.
It creeps softly, day by day
teaching the heart to see once more,
to taste the colors that were dimmed,
to carry the weight of the world
without letting it break the soul.
The beast bites the hand
taught to feed and stroke its mane
the wild creed and lash
can't be tamed chained nor retrained
hunger defeats any pause
each person harbors
a beast that they dare not rouse
that prowls through their dreams
for denial whets their fangs
and strokes more intense hunger
I know all its words
I share its profound dark breaths
I walk where it stalks
know that its way is ruin
but the beast is my shadow
I forged my own beast
as a dark-born reflection
a natural kin
to unmask the buried truth
I learn in no other way
we meet by its fire
to combine our restless breaths
feel our pulses match
trade discord for true accord
and turn our truce into peace
If your behavior is a reflection
of what others say you are,
you’ll behave as they like
because you don’t want to be alone.
When you search within,
you’ll find your authentic self.
By being who you are,
you no longer have a fear of being alone.
Reflection catches
My guilt .
I lose the trust
In whatever , God, I pray too.
I need a release ,
I need to take the seat
I need to Stare back at Me.
Eyes opening a grave.
Don't won't to Be IN THE WAY.
I'm red, in chains
Im Covered ,
In dirt
Unburied Me slowly.
I'm the abuser of me ,
I'm gonna
Shatter
this mirror !
Can I pick up the Pieces?
throw them into a lake,
or let the river take it downstream .
Devil knew it will REPEAT
If I didn't , settle this quickly.
A man,
Falling off the horse.
That came from hell.
I'm the devil,
Who didn't see my Burns,
until I pointed yours out.
Shattering the mirror in pieces
Falling all around my feet
looking at those little old pieces ,
How its still taunting me!
Trying to scare me .
Little pieces of Defeat.
Little pieces of shame .
Little pieces that was stain.
Little pieces of crazy old me .
Guilty Distorted image remains
haunting me.
I forgive the pieces
That was once me
I pray as the reflection stares back,
Mirror intact with a crack and missing piece .
So, I won't forget that
shattered mirror that once was me.
They asked for a piece of my mind—
so I offered silence, wrapped in gold.
No rage, no clamor, no thunderclap,
just breath unbroken when the world turned cold.
Peace of mind isn't a destination,
but a pact with storms I’ve learned to outlast.
Not the absence of chaos—but grace,
in the moments I choose not to cast judgment, holding fast.
It's the stillness behind my steady stare,
the fire I tame, not the one I unleash.
It’s walking away when anger flares,
letting go of what I can’t reach, finding release.
I’ve stitched serenity from sorrow,
threaded calm through countless sleepless nights.
Peace, to me, isn't some distant tomorrow—
but daring to rest in fractured lights.
So if you want a piece of my mind,
you’ll find it in the way I pause,
in how I fold my fears like paper,
and whisper “soft” where there was “because.”
I’ll speak not to conquer, but to mend—
peace isn't passive, it’s power, my friend.
Sitting under a full moon
I begin to think
I think about how lucky the moon is
Sitting high in the midnight sky
Not a worry in the world
I think about what it would be like to be the moon
I light up the night sky
To emit my glow and energy upon the world
Lighting the way for those seeking home
Then, I begin to wonder
I wonder what the moon sees
Does it see how we hurt one another?
Does it see the pain we go through?
Does it see me the way I see me?
I wonder what it hears
Does it hear the vulgarity?
Does it hear the prayers?
Does it hear the silence?
Sitting under the full moon
I start to watch
I watch the moon in the sky
I watch the night pass me by
I watch as the moon stares back
Just sitting under the full moon
I stare and it stares back
Emitting its glow and energy upon the world
I sit and listen
I listen to the moon tell its story
It has my undivided attention
We sit and we talk
Under the full moon
I am always trying
to put words into the mouth
of mornings, speak
over the quiet that descends
at dusk when the world
pauses to take a breath.
It is my voice I hear
echoing back in the wind
and my fears that crawl
the dark on those long nights.
I make the world
a reflection of me.
I seem to get in the way
and drown out with my own
noise whatever is there
deep in its silence, patiently
waiting for me to become quiet,
to listen, hear what it has to say.
I keep planting gardens in my wounds,
wondering why everything tastes like rust.
Maybe I don’t want to heal—
maybe I just want prettier scars.
Some nights, I mistake my reflection
for something I’m supposed to save.
It’s not love.
It’s recognition.
I keep circling the fire
because I built it.
I don’t miss the pain—
I miss having something to blame.
I never wanted happiness.
I wanted familiar.
And familiar feels like bleeding
in places no one looks.
Healing scares me.
Who am I without the ache?
So I named my bruises
just to feel less alone
I’m on your lap
in a photo I no longer have—
a toddler with a borrowed brush,
my hand caught mid-daub
on your canvas.
It was staged, of course—
your painting for a calendar
on the easel in front of us
like the month you gave me
a tool of your craft
and I mistook it
for permission—
but my brush didn’t
paint like yours.
Sometimes I wonder
if you saw it,
the difference—
or if you just liked
how I held the brush,
intent on nothing more
than becoming you.
I no longer try
to paint like you.
I paint like me—
and I think you'd smile
to see what I’ve done,
though my brush still doesn’t
paint like yours.
A mirror isn't just a frame,
A sheet of glass that speaks your name.
It shows your image. Yes, it's true–
But now the whole of what is you.
It doesn't bend, it doesn't fake,
It captures truths you cannot break.
But mirror hide in the other forms–
In quiet thoughts, in silence storms.
In words that bruise, in eyes that know,
In shadows you still fear to show.
Not every mirror dare to shine–
some show the crack you called divine.
So ask yourself what mirrors mean–
They’re more than Polished, silver, clean.
They’re, everything that lays you bare–
Your secret grief, your silent prayers,
The mirror speaks without a sound–
It sees the soul where truth is found.
~hira~
A mirror isn't just a frame,
A sheet of glass that speaks your name.
It shows your image. Yes, it's true–
But now the whole of what is you.
It doesn't bend, it doesn't fake,
It captures truths you cannot break.
But mirror hide in the other forms–
In quiet thoughts, in silence storms.
In words that bruise, in eyes that know,
In shadows you still fear to show.
Not every mirror dare to shine–
some show the crack you called divine.
So ask yourself what mirrors mean–
They’re more than Polished, silver, clean.
They’re, everything that lays you bare–
Your secret grief, your silent prayers,
The mirror speaks without a sound–
It sees the soul where truth is found.
I am the writer, reader, and spectator.
Lying down in your arms, my eyes wander.
Just look into your eyes in quiet solitude;
My tears say all in this interlude.
My small victories—chess and writings,
My journeys to places where I chased my cravings.
You see it all and understand without judging,
Like the few who backed me and keep me hoping.
I remember the shiverings of my fingers and fear.
I endure and live in moments far from dear.
I crave true friendships, togetherness without filters,
Recall my missed ambitions and my refuge in pleasures.
I look to restart, refresh, and gather my straws.
I fear to look back on fifty years’ scars.
You gaze at me with tears of compassion,
I seek refuge in you to pour my passion.
By Suresh M Iyer
To be safe is to cozy up with your past,
Like that old sweater you can’t throw away—a bit frayed, but a blast!
What you see is what you get—
A masterpiece of chaos, like a cat's hairball at your feet,
Born from the brilliant art of dodging responsibility,
And a grand delusion that mistakes are just "creative beats.”
To love is to pretend you care, oh dear,
For something outside yourself—like that plant you forgot to water, I fear.
Yes, most religions have turned this into a thriving market,
Selling “selflessness” like it's the latest fashion—what a racket!
Stained with the colors of thought and wishful dreams,
Dulled by contemplating cultures—you know, the usual schemes.
And if you ponder long enough, who knows?
The future might just wink at you—but only if it shows!
But man—oh, what man dares to take a peek,
At his own quirky quirks, his blunders, and, let’s face it, his cheek?
He is king at heart, ruling with a laugh,
In this comedy of life, where we all play our part—just look at the staff!
Museums
A place full of stories
Of art
Not just in the paintings
But in the people too
A little black girl walking hand in hand with her mother
Her eyes lit up in wonder
Wandering what she would discover
While she walks around
Spinning around
And jumping up and down
She doesn't see
That everytime she jumps the light reflecting on her beautiful brown skin makes it glimmer
Like little flecks of gold placed exactly
Like when the sun reflects a river
She doesn't see
The way her beaded braids move
Eagerly trying to catch up with her
Dancing in excitement
Enjoying this moment
Wishing she could forever stay this innocent
She shines like a diamond
She doesn't see
Her warm chocolate eyes
The way the brown melts peoples hearts
Her eyes alone could be artwork
An artwork that could instill innocence in every person It meets
Her eyes A superpower
That could bring people together
Just before she leaves
She looks at a final art piece
And for the first time she sees -
"Mommy it's me"
It was called the art of the reflection in the mirror
And when she looked in it she felt prettier
This place where I sit
so unfamiliar to me
this is not what I had imagined
not what I expected
this is not the path I was walking on
must have slipped through a wormhole
a mysterious splice in time
and materialized stumbling
on the other side or,
somehow swept up into a tornado
drifted on the blustery wind
spat out viciously, just like Jonah
to this place where I sit
with all of my stuff, my books
and other things and challenges
I’ve been here quite a while
this place where I sit
my hiding place, my shelter
my comfort zone, my kid calls it home
I’m grateful for this safety net
this place where I sit,
well rehearsed and polished
but I’m ready to move on