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Anna Elias Poem
It’s not that I hate your short poems.
Truthfully, everything you write
makes me fall in love with you a little more.
Even the haikus.
Every line, every word,
every piece of you that finds its way onto a page
feels like a gift I never get tired of opening.
It’s just that I always want more.
I check your poems more often than I should,
hoping to find something new,
hoping you’ve written another one about me,
hoping to catch a glimpse of what goes through your mind
when you think of me.
When I miss you,
when all I want is to hear your handsome voice
or lose myself in your gorgeous eyes,
and I can’t,
I turn to your poems.
I read them over and over,
letting your words fill the space
where you should be.
They become the closest thing I have to you.
So it’s not that your poems are too short.
It’s that when I can’t be beside you,
your poems are all I have,
and I wish they were longer
so I could stay with you a little while more.
Because every poem feels like a taste of you,
and no matter how much I read,
I never seem to get enough.
I always find myself reaching the end,
wishing there was one more stanza,
one more page,
one more piece of you
for me to hold onto until I can have you again.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I’m sorry.
I really am.
If I could erase
each careless thing I’d say,
I’d trade every one
to take your hurt away.
I had no idea
how deeply I’d gone wrong.
If I’d known you were hurting,
I would’ve stopped before long.
I thought I was joking.
I thought you didn’t care.
I never saw the pain
my words were leaving there.
I’m so used to hearing,
“You’re the best.”
“You’re the smartest.”
“You’ve outdone the rest.”
“You’re the strongest.”
“You’re amazing.”
“You’ll go so far.”
After hearing it enough,
I forgot who people are.
I let all of that praise
go straight to my head.
I thought achievements alone
were what made someone well-read.
I thought grades were greatness.
I thought medals meant more.
I thought being admired
was what life had in store.
I completely ignored
what mattered from the start:
Being humble.
Being gentle.
Being caring.
Having heart.
That’s what truly makes
a person shine through.
Not the praise they receive
but the kindness in you.
I never realized
how lucky I’d been
to have someone so good
and still choose not to see him.
I don’t care
if your grades aren’t as high as mine.
I don’t care
if you’ve written fewer poems than mine.
I don’t care
if you don’t play every sport I do.
None of those things
could ever compare to you.
You could become
all those things if you tried,
but I’d never become you,
no matter my pride.
I could never be
as patient as you.
As sweet.
As caring.
As honest.
As true.
No medal,
no trophy,
no poem I write
could ever give me
a heart that’s as bright.
I thought I was better.
I thought I was above.
I made fun of people
instead of choosing love.
I even made fun of you,
and now I finally see,
the person I looked down on
was always above me.
Not because of your grades.
Not because of your success.
But because your heart
has always held much less
Less pride.
Less ego.
Less wanting to be seen.
And so much more kindness
than I’ve ever been.
I don’t deserve
the patience you’ve shown.
I don’t deserve
the kindness you’ve known.
But if you’ll believe
even one thing I say,
I’m sorry.
Not just today.
I’ll spend every tomorrow
trying to become
someone who deserves
the person you’ve become.
I’m sorry.
I really am.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
It’s so weird how people perceive themselves,
and then how they perceive others.
I can look at someone
and see beauty so effortlessly
see something in them
I would give anything to see in myself.
And then I look in the mirror
and suddenly I become an expert
at finding everything wrong.
It’s strange.
I can admire a stranger without hesitation,
but when it comes to myself,
I need a thousand reasons
to believe I am worth admiring.
And somehow,
I only believe myself.
A billion people could tell someone they’re beautiful,
and one person could call them ugly,
and somehow the insult survives
long after the compliments disappear.
One sentence
can outweigh a thousand kind ones.
One voice
can become louder
than an entire room.
Maybe that’s because
we treat opinions like facts
once we’ve heard them enough.
Most things in life are just opinions
that were made centuries ago,
repeated so many times
that we forgot they were opinions.
Someone decided what was beautiful.
Someone decided what was ugly.
Someone decided what was worthy,
what was strange,
what was enough.
And eventually,
we stopped asking who decided.
We just believed them.
Maybe if everyone realized that,
so many more people would be happy.
Maybe we’d stop looking at ourselves
through rules written by people
who have been dead for centuries.
Maybe we’d stop measuring our worth
against standards
we never agreed to.
Maybe we’d finally understand
that we weren’t born
knowing what beautiful meant.
We were taught.
And if something can be taught,
maybe it can be unlearned.
I wish it were that easy.
Because knowing something is an opinion
doesn’t always stop it
from feeling like a fact.
At the beginning of the year,
I covered every mirror in my house.
I was so disgusted with myself
that I didn’t even want
to be reminded of my own face.
But hiding the mirror
didn’t make me disappear.
It only made me realize
how much of my life
I had spent looking at myself
through eyes that hated me.
Maybe that’s the cruelest part:
I can look at a stranger
and see a person.
I can look at someone else
and forgive every imperfection,
call them beautiful,
tell them they don’t need to change.
But when it’s me,
I suddenly become the judge.
Comparison really is the thief of joy.
I can’t go anywhere
without wondering what people think of me,
without comparing myself
to strangers who don’t even know my name.
And the stupidest part is
they’re probably doing the same thing.
Maybe the girl I envy
is looking at me
and wishing she had something I have.
Maybe the person I think is perfect
has never once looked at themselves
the way I look at them.
Maybe somewhere,
in some universe
where humanity learned to question
everything a little sooner,
there are people
who look in mirrors
without searching for flaws.
People who hear an insult
and let it fall to the ground.
People who hear a compliment
and simply believe it.
People who never learned
to hate themselves
for breaking rules
that were never real.
Maybe in that universe,
beauty isn’t a cage.
Maybe it’s just a word.
And maybe the strangest thing
is that we’re already living
in a world where none of these opinions
are laws
yet somehow,
we still let them govern us.
Maybe someday
we’ll stop asking the mirror
if we’re beautiful.
Maybe we’ll just look.
And maybe that will be enough.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly.
I really miss him
and I still care about him.
I was just scared
that he was upset with me,
and instead of talking about it,
I left.
I feel ashamed about it.
I don’t want him to hate me.
I don’t want him to think
I left because I didn’t care.
I just don’t like affection.
I don’t like love.
I don’t like relationships.
They make me uncomfortable.
I’ve always felt uncomfortable with them.
I don’t know why.
Every time someone gets close to me,
part of me just wants to leave.
But with him,
I actually felt happy.
And that’s what makes me feel worse,
because I really did care about him,
and I really did like being with him.
I just can’t stay.
It doesn’t feel right to me.
It never does.
Even when everything is good,
I still feel like I need to get away.
I wish I knew how to explain it better.
I wish I could just be normal about love
and not feel so uncomfortable with it.
But I can’t.
So I left,
and I’m sorry.
Maybe one day
I’ll understand myself better.
Maybe one day
I’ll stop being scared of love.
Maybe one day
I’ll learn how to love.
But right now,
I just don’t know how.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I can’t write poems anymore, not like before,
I can’t think of anything that I can ignore.
And somehow he’s the only reason I’m stuck like this,
the only thought I can’t quite dismiss.
Every idea I try to create or begin,
turns into his face before I can win.
I try to make rhymes, I try to be smart,
but everything circles right back to his part.
Nothing feels right unless it’s about him somehow,
I don’t even know when it started or how.
It isn’t fair, it’s messing with me,
how can someone be that unaware and still be the key?
So beautiful, so perfect, he doesn’t even see,
what he does to my thoughts so constantly.
But God, he’s so oblivious, it’s starting to show,
and honestly it bothers me more than he’ll know.
Why can’t he see how handsome I find him to be?
Why does he get confused when he’s standing with me?
Why can’t he realize I’m making my move,
while he just stands there, still out of the groove?
I swear I’ve made it obvious every way I can,
but he still acts like he doesn’t understand.
And somehow he looks at me, calm and unaware,
like I haven’t been writing him into every single line I share.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I used to hate free verse poems.
I thought they were lazy,
boring,
like no effort had been put into them at all.
I preferred rhymes.
I liked structure,
patterns,
words fitting together perfectly like they were meant to.
But once I met you,
free verse became all I could write.
I couldn’t think of any rhymes anymore.
Every time I tried,
all I could hear was your name
repeating over and over in my head
until nothing else sounded right beside it.
And I never liked haiku poems either.
I thought those were the kinds of poems people wrote
when they had nothing meaningful to say,
when they didn’t know what to write about.
But after meeting you,
I can’t stop writing them.
Maybe because those short little poems
are the only way I can hold feelings this overwhelming
without completely falling apart.
Because if I tried writing something longer,
it would probably just become your name
repeated endlessly across the page.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I love your eyes.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,
but they’re all I can think about.
The color of them feels unreal somehow,
like the faint blue in the sky
right before the sun fully rises.
Beautiful in a quiet way,
the kind that doesn’t need to beg for attention
because it already owns it naturally.
Looking into your eyes feels impossible to describe.
It’s like staring into the Sombrero Galaxy,
endless and hypnotizing,
something so beautiful it almost doesn’t feel real enough to touch.
Or like the Boomerang Nebula,
cold and distant and breathtaking all at once.
I get so lost staring into them
it feels like diving into the Pacific Ocean,
sinking deeper and deeper
without wanting to come back up for air,
preferring to suffocate
just to stay there a little longer.
This was supposed to be a rhyme poem.
But how am I supposed to think about rhymes
or anything else at all
when you exist?
I can’t get you out of my head,
and you talking to me only makes it worse.
It makes me long for more.
It makes my mind wrap itself around the idea of you.
I tried to think of rhymes,
I really did.
But every time I tried,
I just kept rhyming “you” with “blue”
over and over again.
And somehow I even kept trying to rhyme “you” with “handsome”
even though they don’t rhyme at all.
Maybe because when I think about you
my brain stops caring about things making sense.
Sometimes I wish I had eyes like yours.
So that every time I looked into a mirror,
I could see a little piece of you
staring back at me.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
After you left this town,
the people and the things inside it lost their spark.
It was always a sad, lonely, dark little town,
but you brought light to it
with your bright eyes, your gorgeous smile,
your charming personality.
You made the whole place feel alive.
Like living inside a movie.
Everyone ignored the town’s gloomy presence because of you.
Somehow your laughter softened the silence,
somehow your existence made this place feel worth staying in.
But now that you’re gone,
everything feels ruined.
The post office hasn’t been touched in years.
No one gossips at the café anymore.
Nobody even bothers leaving their houses now.
The streets feel colder,
quieter,
emptier than they ever did before.
And me
what am I supposed to do
stuck in a town this small,
this sleepy,
this gloomy,
without the one thing that ever lit it up?
You.
So I guess it’s better
just sleeping in with the town.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I think I’ve loved you
in every poem I’ve ever written.
Even before I met you,
before I knew your name or the sound of your voice,
my love poems somehow still described you perfectly.
The bright eyes.
The soft smile.
The feeling of warmth disguised as a person.
It almost feels like the universe was trying to warn me,
quietly hinting that one day
I would meet someone
who would ruin poetry for me forever.
Because now every line I write
somehow becomes about you.
Even the poems that never mention your name
still carry pieces of you hidden between the words.
I tried confessing quietly,
hiding my feelings inside metaphors and imagery,
hoping maybe one day
you’d stop and finally notice.
Maybe you’ll realize
the reason all my poems sounded so desperate
was because every single one
was yearning for you.
But I don’t think you’ll ever truly see it.
So my words will probably stay here for years,
buried in notebooks, collecting dust while the feelings inside them
continue loving you anyway.
And maybe one day, far from now,
you’ll look back at my poems
and finally notice the clues I left behind for you.
The repeated mentions of your eyes.
The way every ending somehow circled back to you.
The desperation hidden between every line.
And maybe then you’ll realize
that all this time
I was never just writing poems.
I was trying to tell you
I loved you.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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Anna Elias Poem
I am confessing.
You just don’t notice it.
All these poems I write
talking about your smile,
your charm,
your intelligence,
your gorgeous blue eyes,
talking about how I go crazy
just at the thought of you
You think I only talked to you
because I was interested in the things you liked.
maybe I did like hearing about the bands you loved, maybe I did like hearing about your niche interests.
But the truth is
I wouldn’t have cared about any of it
until you came along.
You made all those things feel important
simply because they belonged to you.
That’s what you don’t understand.
It was never really about the music.
Never about the stories.
Never about the poems themselves.
It was always about you.
Every conversation,
every poem,
every hidden metaphor
somehow circled back to you.
Because this is my only way of confessing.
I wish I was less of a coward,
I wish I could just look at you and say it to your face,
say all the things I bury inside these lines instead.
But every time I try,
the words disappear before they can leave my mouth.
So I hide them here instead.
In poems.
In metaphors.
In desperate little hints
I hope you’ll someday understand.
And every time I look at you,
my eyes drift toward your lips
and for a moment I think about kissing you.
But something always stops me.
Maybe it’s the feeling
that I could never truly be enough for you.
I thought being good at sports would make me feel worthy.
I thought doing so many of them,
pushing myself harder and harder,
would finally make me feel impressive enough.
I thought being one of the smartest
would make me easier to love.
I thought doing my hair nicely
would make me look more attractive in your eyes.
I even tried being more energetic,
pretending I wasn’t tired all the time,
because I thought maybe if I became brighter
you would look at me as if I was someone you wanted to be around all the time.
But then I hear the way you used to talk about her.
The way you used to say you miss her.
The way your face softens
when you talk about how happy she made you feel.
In your old poems, even if they were written a long time ago,
I can’t help but feel
you still miss her.
And suddenly all the effort feels pointless.
Because no matter how hard I try to become someone lovable,
I don’t know if I could ever make you as happy
as she once did.
And this
this is my confession.
I just hope one day
you read these words carefully enough
to realize
they were always written about you.
Copyright © Anna Elias | Year Posted 2026
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