Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
Her dad was her first king,
He made the rules; anything else was counterfeit.
A precious figurine, yet a knight,
Kept just out of reach but always ready to fight.
Her mom was her first teacher,
Teaching her to stay calm,
Saying, “Don’t cry when it’s not yet time,”
Telling her to swallow the seeds of depression
That threatened to claw their way out of her intestines.
Her sisters taught her how to lie,
Preparing her to survive a life they’d mastered.
Her uncle, staring from across the table,
Wore smiles that left promises she learned to disdain.
Family was a word she carefully cut out of her dictionary,
So she wouldn’t believe it had a place in her world.
Yet she hadn’t suffered enough.
Her pain stayed stuck in her throat,
And at night, she choked,
On forgiveness, she should offer,
On patience to believe it would get better.
Because wasn't someone else's life worse than hers?
On nights like these, she rolled in bed,
Her body twisting as pain carved its way from her stomach.
Each breath was a battle against the tightening in her chest.
Her fingers gripped the sheets,
Sinking into the fabric as if it could hold her together.
Her heart pounded in her ears,
Her throat tight with unshed tears.
A low whimper escaped her lips,
But no tears followed.
“It’s not real,” she told herself.
Her pain was just an echo,
Because her life had been easy—
Her sisters had it worse.
She hadn’t suffered enough,
So why did this pain cling so tightly to her throat?
It felt pathetic, really. Yet she lay there,
Caught between what’s real and what isn’t.
She didn’t deserve to grieve
The life that could have been.
Still, she dreamed of who she might have been,
Untouched by this world.
When the pain crept back again,
She drowned herself in an “I’m okay.”
Patting her back, she whispered, “Give it time.”
Time heals all wounds,
Right?
So maybe it would heal her scratch—
Her friends told her to seek therapy,
But she didn’t think she qualified.
Therapy was for those who wore scars like badges,
Not for someone like her,
Whose path was littered with whispers, not screams.
It was a good life, right?
So why did she desperately want to be broken?
Why did she crave a “go ahead” to cry?
She wanted to feel everything—or nothing at all.
So she fought the darkness,
Swam against the tide
That threatened to drown her.
Oh, she hadn’t suffered enough.
Yet, at the snap of the alarm,
She was back on her feet,
Dead inside but alive
In a world she never chose to live.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
When there's no ear when you speak
and you are made to be an oblivious bargain
when trust sounds so far away
and friends become quite cliche
take care, rest well, goodnight.
When feeling burdened,
burdened with pain
when family doesn't see it that way
when there's no one who truly believes
take care, rest well, goodnight.
When misunderstandings are the new hearsays,
slanders guiding your every way
when troubles never seem to go away,
loneliness etched into your veins
take care, rest well, goodnight.
Trials may come,
dishonour on your name
whispers to crush or kill
even though life doesn't go as willed
take care, rest well, goodnight.
Wipe your tears
face your fears
bad days all come and go
remember that you matter more
than any pearls you know
whenever sad, cry all you want
it's alright you know
tomorrow is a brand new day
so goodnight and hope again.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
It was a normal day,
The day he had his first puff.
Children played beneath the sun,
And weary songs filled the air.
Time didn’t stop as he’d been told,
Not even the old man cast a glance
As he stammered, "A pack of cigarettes, please."
Between his fingers, he held the cigar,
For the first time, he felt in control.
With a spark, the lighter flickered,
His eyes gleaming as flames danced.
His mother, who always knew it all,
Had no idea what happened behind the kitchen door.
He took a long drag as the tip met his lips.
Choking, laughing—
He had finally broken a rule.
With a second drag,
He knew what pride felt like.
Days turned to nights,
And the kitchen door creaked.
He lit a cigarette, staring into his mother’s eyes—
It gave him courage, like a king.
From a pack a day,
To twenty just to feel okay,
To losing count,
Because all that mattered was the unfulfilling drag.
He no longer remembered his mother’s voice,
Nor the faces of his siblings.
Each day blurred into the next,
And he worked hard to keep it that way.
Now in the doctor’s office, he sat,
Feeling his bones beneath fragile skin.
The doctor spoke as if he had a choice—
"A few years without smoking, and you'll live."
But all he heard was that hope was gone.
For years, he could have let go—
But he could never forsake
His childhood friend.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2025
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
Don't tell me to stop
I would if I could.
I don't like it any more than you do
but when I say "never again"
I turn and begin to negotiate.
I caution everyone against such actions.
yet in silence when no one is around
I fuel the ache that should have long been dead.
I ignite a fire I should have quenched
then I come out drenched in shame.
A hypocrite I disdain
but that I became.
And they were right in all they said
I could if I wanted
I could adopt discipline
still I succumb over and over again
and put on an act to save my name.
A gamble on my reputation,
another day to battle an addiction.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
There's this hidden God, like our inner guide,
Who must wonder if we truly decide
To follow rules, pretending with all our might,
Living in a world that's not quite right.
It's like a puzzle, truth and lies so near,
But inside, we fight a different fear.
It's a heavy feeling, hard to explain,
A part of us that's filled with pain.
Through the ages, things have changed a lot,
But this mysterious God is hard to spot.
We seek answers, but they slip away,
Leaving us in doubt, day by day.
It's like having a friend we can't quite see,
But we know this God is part of you and me.
A mystery, a puzzle, a guiding force,
An invisible presence on our life's course.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
Whence did you learn that enchanting smile's art,
My own face takes a different start,
While happiness flows deep within,
My expression tells a different spin.
Can you sense the laughter's gentle flow,
I tried to mimic it, in the know,
But my attempt, a whimsical snout,
Echoing mirth, yet veering about.
My excitement's a spark, hard to quell,
Though you may not notice, I'll tell,
Your humor ignites joy in its array,
Yet my smile might not match, come what may.
How do I confess this untold truth,
That my cheeks have forgotten their joyful youth,
Toasting beers and raising a cheer,
Seems to have faded in yesteryear
Yet, I never grasped, truth to be told,
How my demeanor made others fold,
Jameson's silence, my friend's head's shake,
Unveiled the impact my expression could make.
So now, I ponder on that cue,
To turn the page and start anew,
To spread cheer with cheeks that rise,
And chase away shadows from others' eyes.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
I often stumble, errors left behind,
Yet my memory fails to hold them in mind.
They call me wild, perhaps a touch insane,
Yet solitude's my solace, where I gain.
To welcome you in, heed my caution's plea,
When I whisper "don't," listen carefully
to my, don't, don't
Don't read it
I think about how offended you made me feel
Contemplating the untruths you believed I'd never see,
Musing on the possibility, could a crush on me possibly be?
I think of how wierd it was that I was accused of that crime in 2013
or how I feel I couldn't possibly exist
Hours of thought, a relentless tide,
To unburden my mind, on paper I confide
but... don't, don't read it
Don't, don't
Don't believe
I think I like the way you speak
I think you have a beautiful smile
and everytime you walk into the room you bring all the light in with you
so...I let you know
but don't, don't believe
Perhaps it's the eloquence that flows from your lips,
The beauty of coaxing your smile with little quips.
Each entrance, an opportunity to slip away,
So please, don't be swayed, I earnestly convey.
and... don't, don't believe
don't, don't
don't love me
I know how crazy that sounds
I have a motto to always return a favor done in time
but how can I return a love when I don't know how ...to
look in your eyes when I'm terrified
light up everytime you walk by
tell me, how can I lose a friendship for a love I cannot buy
And if I can't buy your affection, I'll always stand tall,
Holding an advantage, no matter what befalls.
Thus, I implore, please don't, don't love me
Don't, don't
Don't go
Don't offer a smile when you turn away,
Then wear a frown when I'm in need of your display.
don't say you'll be my friend one second
and then act like we've never met, it's absurd
don't say you are my bff
then let an accident decide the last f.
don't act like you're my dearest friend
only to let fate cut our ties in the end.
But if you really mean to stay.
then please don't go.
Always inquire, seek the truth that's true,
Is your intent genuine, or mere words that you spew?
Or perhaps let me be, in solitude's embrace,
For I err without memory, in life's complex maze.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
They stripped away my former self,
Reduced me to a mere shadow, for "maturity."
Before and after, I remained the same,
But different personas emerged, all in the name of "maturity."
No more colorful socks or shoes with playful straps,
I was told, "You're older now," by the voice of "maturity."
"Compose yourself," they said, "Your voice is too loud,
And your laughter is awkward," all due to "maturity."
"Look ahead, not behind," they advised,
"Your dreams are beautiful, but not for you,"
I was informed, at this stage called "maturity."
Before and after, I wondered, "Why?"
Same person, different facades, all attributed to "maturity."
Oh, "maturity," you've transformed me so,
But what's the path forward, I must know.
How to live within, not without,
How to embrace the truth, cast off doubt.
How to express, not withhold,
How to believe and feel, be bold.
How to return to the child within,
And learn, once again, to begin.
The fault, dear "maturity," lies not with me,
But with your heavy hand, you see.
Oh, "maturity," why change me so?
It's a question I'm left to ponder and mull over.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
No edifice harbors more profound silence than this,
Each door creaks with a mournful cadence as if bearing the weight of years.
The stairs emit a plaintive screech, echoing the passage of time.
All that once flourished now lies entombed in layers of dust,
Save for the painting adorning the whitewashed living room wall,
And the old man, ensconced in his wheelchair, who still blinks, albeit infrequently.
He departed this realm years ago,
Yet someone else had forsaken him first,
The woman in the painting, her smile haunting, her beauty transcendent,
Her essence seeping from canvas to soul, ensnaring his gaze.
He waits, as he promised he would,
Pondering if perchance his warranty has been extended,
Or if Heaven reserves his solitary existence as a form of penance.
Now he resides within the painting,
His prolonged stare transmuting into a serene smile,
For he is seated beside the woman on the wall,
Enraptured by a dream, hypnotized by her presence,
No longer shedding tears for a love lost.
I presumed him long departed, as we all moved forward with life,
How ironic is death, and the remnants it leaves behind.
As I removed the painting, I watched his eyes glaze over,
What a price to pay for a lifelong devotion.
If this act seals his fate,
Then, with a smash to the ground, I slain his love again.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Abigail Cole Poem
I was once asked, what's the one thing I despise?
But words faltered, for she, my reflection, listens to my cries.
In the mirror, her gaze sharp, like daggers, meets mine,
A silent dialogue of disdain, an internal sign.
I detest her patience, unrequited and unearned,
Kindness persists, tears withheld, a lesson unlearned.
A heart forgiving, releasing the past's unrepentant grip,
A trait I loathe, an internal conflict to equip.
Her unwavering persistence for love's elusive embrace,
Believing in hearts where skepticism might find a space.
Open to learning, correcting the course she's charted,
Yet defensive, perpetually on edge, guarded.
Scared of friendships, a fear she can't dispel,
Misunderstanding the world, a tale she tells.
Believing in change through explanations, a futile endeavor,
Apologizing, though blameless, a gesture she'll sever.
Her reasons dismissed as mere excuses,
Feeling misinterpreted, a sentiment she accuses.
Sometimes alone, a solitary state,
Concern dismissed, a consequence she contemplates.
Suppressing signs of sadness, a stoic masquerade,
Consistently right, a truth that won't fade.
Undeserved hate cast upon her tender frame,
Trust reserved solely for her, a self-imposed claim.
She despises me most, a self-inflicted plight,
Yet in mutual hatred, comfort takes its flight.
Copyright © Abigail Cole | Year Posted 2024
|