The world is full of people, you will find, Whose lives are one long whine and one long din, Whose every breath is one long discontent, And every word a bitter discontent.
They find fault with everything they see, And with the people they are thrown with; They grumble at the weather, at the food, And at the way the world is going too.
They find fault with their own lot in life, And with the lot of others; they are never Pleased with anything, and never seem To have a single thing to say that’s pleasant.
They are the joyless people of the earth, And they make life a burden to themselves And to all who come in contact with them; And they are the people who are never happy.
So if you would be happy, keep away From these unhappy people, and try to find Some pleasant people to associate with, Who will make life a joy and not a burden.
Now, I’m a middle school math teacher. The days are filled with the chatter of students, the squeak of markers on whiteboards, and the rhythmic ticking of the classroom clock. It’s a far cry from the carefree days of camp, but it’s rewarding in its own way.
Just today, as I was walking down the hallway between classes, I caught a whiff of something that instantly transported me back to those summers at camp. It was a familiar scent, but I couldn’t quite place it. Maybe it was the faint smell of wood smoke from the cafeteria’s kitchen, or perhaps it was a student’s perfume that reminded me of the bug spray we used to slather on.
Whatever it was, it triggered a flood of memories. I remembered the crackling campfires, the gooey s’mores, the silly songs, and the late-night talks with fellow counselors. I remembered the feeling of being surrounded by nature, of being part of something bigger than myself.
For a moment, I was back at camp, feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin and the cool breeze in my hair. Then, just as quickly, I was back in the hallway, surrounded by lockers and students. But the memory of those summers at camp stayed with me, a reminder of a time when life was simpler, and the world was full of possibilities. A phantom breeze, a whispered sigh, A scent adrift, that floats nearby. No image seen, no sound so clear, Yet memory’s ghost, it holds me near. Carried upon the gentlest of winds, a fragrance emerges, Unseen, unheard, yet stirring the soul’s embers.
Fragrant Memories
The baking spice, of cinnamon’s heat, A childhood kitchen, bittersweet. Grandma’s apron, flour dust, A warm embrace, in gentle trust. Golden sunlight filters through the window pane, Cinnamon and cloves dance in a sweet refrain. Grandma’s laughter, a comforting sound, In her loving arms, solace is found.
The damp earth’s breath, a mossy stone, A forest path, where I’d roam alone. Green leaves unfurled, a sunlit gleam, A tranquil space, a waking dream. Beneath the canopy of emerald leaves, The forest floor, a tapestry it weaves. Sunlight dappled, a gentle stream flows, Nature’s embrace, where serenity grows.
The salty tang, of ocean spray A distant shore, where children play. Waves crashing soft, on sandy white, A sense of peace, in fading light. The rhythmic symphony of crashing waves, Whispers tales of hidden coves and caves. Seashells scattered, glistening pearls of sand, A tranquil haven, a timeless land.
A worn book’s scent, of aged and deep, Where stories slept, and secrets keep. Paper’s whisper, a silent call A quiet comfort, standing tall. Within the pages, adventures unfold, Tales of heroes, both brave and bold. The scent of old paper, a comforting embrace, In quiet corners, a tranquil space.
These fragile threads, of fragrant air, Unravel time, and banish care. A fleeting moment, held so tight, A scented solace, in the night. Each scent a memory, a chapter untold, Whispers of the past, in stories unfold. A tapestry of moments, woven with care, Fragrant memories, suspended in air. In the stillness of the night, they ignite, A scented solace, bathed in moonlight.
The lines were drawn in quiet ink, A map of “yes” and “stay,” I feared the bridge would surely sink If I turned the other way. I held my breath to keep the peace, A ghost within the room, Fearing that my own release Would seal a friendship’s doom.
I thought the cost of being me Was more than they would pay, That if I spoke, they’d turn and flee And leave me in the gray. But then the weight began to gall, The “jokes” that left a sting, The way they made me feel so small While I gave everything.
So I stood up, a sudden flame, And watched the masks descend, I finally spoke my truth, my name, And waited for the end. They met my strength with cold disdain, With anger and with slight, They saw my joy as their own pain And walked into the night.
And in the silence left behind, The truth began to bloom: The friends I was so scared to find Were never in that room. For if a boundary breaks a bond, The bond was but a thread; Of people who are truly fond, There’s nothing left to dread.
If standing up meant losing them, I lost a heavy chain, A false and hollow stratagem That only offered pain. The ones who leave when you grow tall Were never yours to keep; It’s better that the shadows fall So you can finally leap.
The 50-Clap Strategy: A Poet’s Blueprint for Community and Growth on Medium As an indie writer and poet, success on Medium isn’t just about crafting beautiful verse; it’s about mastering the art of the ecosystem. For creators working outside of major publications, engagement is the lifeblood, and the 50-clap strategy, combined with genuine community reading, is a powerful tool to foster that engagement.
Here is why adopting the maximum-clap, community-first approach is beneficial for your presence on the platform.
Maximizing Emotional and Algorithmic Support The act of giving 50 claps is more than just a digital pat on the back—it’s a potent signal that provides both emotional and algorithmic support to your fellow writers.
The Psychological Boost: For any writer, especially one starting out, seeing a full 50 claps is a massive dopamine hit. It signals profound appreciation and validates the time and effort invested in their work. This genuine encouragement builds goodwill and is often reciprocated, not out of obligation, but out of a shared understanding of the need for support.
The Visibility Factor: While Medium’s partner program earnings are primarily tied to member reading time, claps still play a role in story distribution and visibility. A high clap count suggests a story is engaging and highly appreciated, encouraging the algorithm to potentially show it to more readers and followers. You help your peers get seen, and they, in turn, help you.
The Power of Reciprocal Community Building Your commitment to reading and fully engaging with your followers’ work transforms a passive follower count into an active community.
Building Genuine Connections: By making it a point to read more of your followers’ articles and poems, you move beyond the superficial “follow-for-follow” game. When you read their work, clap 50 times, and leave a thoughtful comment, you initiate a real, memorable connection. These connections are the foundation of a loyal readership.
Encouraging Reciprocity: People are far more likely to invest their time (and 50 claps) in your work when they see that you are actively invested in theirs. This isn’t artificial engagement; it’s a culture of generosity where you are leading by example, showing that you value the content on the platform. The goal is to rise by lifting others—their growth contributes to the overall health and vibrancy of the poetry community on Medium, which ultimately benefits you.
Training the Algorithm and Defining Your Niche The articles you read and clap for heavily influence the content that Medium’s algorithm shows you, which is an opportunity for targeted growth.
Refining Your Feed: By focusing your reading and 50-clapping on the work of fellow poets and indie writers, you signal to Medium exactly what kind of content you value. This refines your homepage feed, making it a valuable source of relevant, inspiring, and high-quality content within your niche.
Content Discovery: When you engage deeply with niche content, you become more visible to the readers who follow those same writers and tags. Your active presence in the comments and clap lists of other poets puts your name and work directly in front of your target audience—people who are already proven to read and support poetry on Medium.
By consistently giving 50 claps to content you genuinely enjoy and dedicating time to read your followers’ work, you are actively participating in the mutual growth of the indie writing community. This is the most authentic, sustainable strategy for a poet to gain visibility and build a loyal audience on Medium.
In the past, I was an active member of a highly valuable Facebook group dedicated to the craft of writing. This community was specifically designed to support and encourage fellow writers, with a strong emphasis on maximizing our engagement on published stories. Our primary strategy involved a reciprocal exchange—a “clap for clap” system—where we would share our work and, in turn, give the maximum 50 claps to the stories shared by others.
This practice, while certainly effective at boosting visibility and improving our metrics, transcended simple number-crunching. It cultivated a much deeper connection among its participants. The system fundamentally built a supportive community, transforming a collection of solitary writers into a collaborative network. It fostered significant professional and creative growth by encouraging us to consistently produce and share new content. Most importantly, it provided the essential mutual support that independent (“indie”) writers critically need to navigate the often isolating and challenging landscape of online publishing, creating an environment of positive reinforcement and shared success.
They claim the name of “friend,” a title bright, Yet stand as distant as the stars’ cold light. Their voices, once a vibrant, clear refrain, Now reach the ear as faint, distorted pain, Lost, perhaps, in some far, forgotten bar. They speak of history, of shared delight, A woven tapestry of days gone by, But in this stark and unforgiving now, Only their deep, loud silence makes a vow— A painful echo, truer than their word.
A Hollow Bond
What lingers is a hollow, empty shell, A bond without true grace or truth to tell. A fleeting shadow, swift to disappear, Leaving no trace upon the heart held dear. How dare they wear that loyal title still, When constant absence proves against their will A bond untrue, a pretense built on air? Friendship’s true essence is betrayed by care And presence that they utterly withhold, A story of detachment, stark and cold.
Unkept Promises and Letting Go This fragile friendship rose on broken ground, Of promises unkept, no solace found.
Aspirations whispered, never meant to bloom, Commitments scattered to an early tomb. A frail construction, easily swept wide By life’s small currents, or convenient tide. The time has come for separation’s plea, A painful truth that sets the spirit free. So cherish those whose actions speak of grace, Whose faithful presence keeps its steady pace. And with resolve, and self-respect’s strong hand, Let go of those who fail to understand The burden shared, the joy, the vital art,
Am I a difficult person to be friends with? The question echoes in the lonely silence, A heavy query, weighted by repeated pain. I dissect each word, each passing glance, Seeking the flaw so visible to others’ eyes, Yet stubbornly opaque, a shadow on my own stain.
Am I too awkward, my presence a strain? Does nervousness stilt the practiced conversation? I rehearse the words, the balance I must find, To hold the moment, a calculated equation. But the words tumble out, a chaotic, hurried rush, Leaving the perfect moment behind.
Am I too anxious, a constant, worrying hum? A fear of saying too much, of taking up space, Of simply being a burden, too large, too loud. This anxiety, palpable, a barrier I can’t erase, A repellent field that pushes people away, Before a true connection is allowed.
Do I forget to hold my tongue’s sharp edge? I value honesty, perhaps too stark and free. I speak without the varnish of social grace, And the truth, though gently offered, can still be Mistaken for bluntness, a candor that drives them out. What is it? A flaw I cannot place.
I don’t have many friends; the truth is stark. My circle’s small, fragile, and often transient. I don’t know what’s wrong, the fundamental divide. While others form bonds, lasting and resilient, Mine disintegrate like paper submerged in water, With nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.
I am a friend until a better one appears. I serve a purpose, a stand-in for the interim, A convenient stop until a brighter option’s found. I am never good enough, always on the rim; The comparison is the moment of my replacement. I am the waiting room, not the desired ground.
I hold on too long, clinging to the frayed thread, Stretching the inevitable goodbye, a profound fear. My loyalty, my constancy, becomes a weight, A burden they let go, holding nothing dear. Sometimes I must be the one to let go first, A painful, self-preserving, final tear.
It is lonely at times, profoundly I miss The shared laughter, the feeling of belonging, deep inside. But is it real, or the memory idealized? A performance they gave, while they stood by my side, Waiting for the true cast, the better friends to arrive. In the lie of the past, there’s no place left to confide.
I will be there for those who need me to be. My nature unchanged, I offer care freely, A reliable constant, though never the primary light. If you want me to go, tell me honestly. Spare me the slow fade, the ghosting, the agonizing fight. But if you call again, I’ll return without demanding right.
Cherish the friends who remain by your side. Focus on the true constants, the precious, small few. If some want to leave, let them walk away; Their departure speaks of their needs, not a judgment on you. Accept the impermanence, hold the good memories fast, And keep the door open for the few who are true.
📝 The Quiet Count The words escape them, fleeting, quick and slight, A casual “friend,” a breath upon the air. A convenient emblem, shining in the light, But utterly vacant when true burdens bear.
The sun-drenched moments made the title easy, A fashionable accessory for all to don, But in the silence, when the world grew hazy, The fragile tie that held them proved undone.
When the harsh fever gripped me, cold and deep, And a thick curtain of despair descended low, While the wide world was safely fast asleep, The names they boasted felt like phantom snow.
The multitude of vows they’d freely made Were exposed for what they truly were: mere trade. A cruel calculation, bought and then resold, For only the barest fraction cared to call.
A digital whisper, a short text, faint and few, A brief, uncertain spark against the gathering night. The many voices that asserted that they knew Simply vanished, eclipsed by shadows’ might.
My makeshift sickroom was a lonely tomb, And they, the vibrant ghosts who wouldn’t share the gloom. I picture them now, the laughter bright and strong, Their glossy images emblazoned everywhere,
And the harsh, clear truth of where I don’t belong Strikes with the certainty of chilled, vacant air. They spin their narratives, both dazzling and loud, And in their hurried chronicles, a mention flits,
A distant, chilling resonance within the crowd, As my memory into the past slowly transmits. The fast, unforgiving current of their days Sweeps them onward, leaving me a fading haze.
I was a footnote, a forgotten, minor scene, Now pushed aside by brighter, more compelling sheen. The intimacy they claimed was but a lie, A simple piece of scenery they let drift by.
So let the vast machinery of life turn on, Let them find pleasure in their bustling, self-made world. My period of painful self-deception is now gone; The flag of my true solitude has been unfurled.
I’ve met the piercing truth, and there’s no turning back: I am the one who isn’t here, a silent, missing track. I have been edited out, a frame cut from the reel, A ghost inhabiting the spaces where they feel.
And in this quiet haven, this deserted room, Where the walls listen and the shadows softly creep, I sit and learn the texture of my newfound bloom, The quiet dignity the deeply wounded keep.
For in the harsh, raw landscape of this fading light, Where vanity and false pretense cannot remain, I’ve sculpted out a solitary space, pure and white, A quiet harbor safe from any transient pain.
I stand alone, a fact I must completely face, The few dear souls who checked, I hold them close and tight. But for the bulk, the swiftly passing, loud-mouthed race, The thunder of their grand claim is hard to hear in the night.
Their grand pronouncements of unwavering devotion Are stripped of substance, a hollow, mocking notion. The silence speaks louder than their fleeting sound, And in that silence, genuine peace is found.
How long must the open hand remain, When the other will not meet its strain? The core dilemma of the human tie, A painful question of loyalty, Endurance, and how much self-worth you’ll spend, To reach a silence that will never end.
How long does the title of “friend” hold true? When shared history’s debt is overdue, And the present moment is marked by cold harm, Or the chilling indifference of a broken charm? When does the label become a hollow sound, A testament to what was, not what is found?
Is the sacred practice of prayer still right, For a soul unconcerned with your day or night? Does intercession become a painful toll, A thankless rite for a disregarding soul? The spirit’s commitment is tested and frayed, By the walls of betrayal that have been laid.
When they tarnish your name with calculated lies, How long do you absorb the pain behind your eyes? When they won’t speak, a barrier high and stout, How long do you knock before you turn about? When they treat your existence as insignificant air, How much can your spirit’s dignity bear?
The waiting is a sacrifice you choose to make, A pause of your own joy for a lost past’s sake. But waiting is a cost that drains the will, A stalling on the path that you must fulfill. The battle shifts from effort out to inward plea: Do you still pray? Or is detachment the key?
Is it wrong to move on, to finally not care? When self-preservation demands a boundary there, Does moving on become a vital act of grace, To win back your self-respect in this bitter space? The heart refuses to comply, that is the pain, To stop caring is loss, a required emotional wane.
Why does the guilt of leaving cling so tight? A fear of failing the endless-giving rite. The mandate to be patient, to forever yield, While your own peace lies ravaged on the field. Yet, being “the better person” has a true cost, It means protecting dignity before all is lost.
When is it enough? When will it ever cease? The answer is internal, the reclaiming of peace. Enough is when the cost of staying makes you bleed, When waiting becomes self-destruction’s silent deed. Enough is when your own well-being takes the lead, And moving on is liberation—a necessary creed.
Wait Your Turn They bid us work, and strive, and strain, They preach the gospel of grit and pain. The virtue of patience, a long-held breath, Wait your turn, they assure, until death. With diligent toil within the system’s fold, Good things will come, a story often told.
They hail the high road of academic might, Perfect grades, degrees, and the burning night Of all-nighters, leading to institutions grand, The path to success paved by a diploma in hand. The central command, the mantra they impart: Work hard, and success will fill your heart.
But the hollow sound their pronouncements make, From a sheltered world, for goodnes’s sake. A place sustained not by relentless effort’s cost, But by the legacy that was never lost, By exclusive gates and a lineage long, A privilege entrenched, where they belong.
They fail to grasp the truth that grinds us down, The doubled effort just to keep the crown From slipping, just to stay where we began, Disconnected from the struggle’s rigid plan, That harsh existence which our lives define, While they stand above, on heights divine.
What they possess, we desperately lack: The insulating cushion on wealth’s track, Money that shields them from survival’s fear. They wield the power that holds the system dear, Shaping the rules, not merely influence slight, And connections unseen, a web of pure light.
A network of favors, a whispered invitation, Opportunities passed through each generation, A resource worth more than all the sweat we’ve spent, Yet they command us to be more intent. They stand on their platforms, elevated and cold, “Work harder,” they shout, a story getting old.
This directive is a self-serving slight, A useful tool for a blinding light, To justify their perch, so high and so neat, To placate the masses, a narrative complete. Keep us focused on the effort of one, Ignoring the structures, the battle unwon.
But now we pierce the veil, we understand, Too long we’ve labored at their harsh command. Our youth and our fire poured into the drain, For a system of diminishing, aching pain. We know by the certitude of what we live, That harder work will not be enough to give.
It cannot breach the walls that they have raised, It cannot lift the life we’ve always praised, Nor close the chasm wide that separates Their world of ease from the heavy fates. The meritocracy’s promise, their comforting theme, Is a fiction, a sermon, a vanishing dream.
It is a sham, a lie both vast and bold, A hollow pretense, a story bought and sold.
The liquid velvet, soft and deep, A wonderfully warm tide to keep The soul at rest, the skin in grace, A gentle, all-encompassing embrace. It holds the sun’s forgotten art, A yielding balm that mends the heart, Sinking deep into the bone, Where every coil of tension is overthrown.
A quiet joy within the chest, A feeling wholly warm and blessed. Not just physical, but a love untold, A deep, inexplicable warmth to hold. In peaceful suspension, time is still, The outside world obeys the will Of this sweet bliss, where nothing is near But the gentle lapping of the heat held dear.
Then, a subtle shift begins to creep, Disturbing the water from its sleep. A whisper of coolness, a current’s sigh, A quiet, inevitable tide draws nigh. Down and down, the sanctuary falls, The warmth’s core pulled through unseen walls, A slow descent, the magic gone astray, As the perfect feeling flows away.
Swiftly now the change is known, A shocking cold, where heat was sown. It hits the body, a sharp intrusion, A sudden, stark, and cold confusion. Creeping up the limbs, the awakening stark, Leaving a chill, a profound, cold mark. A sudden loss, a trailing dread, As comforting heat has truly fled.
The final warmth is now withdrawn, I lie in wait for the bleak, cold dawn. The porcelain icy, the air is chill, The once-magical pool is now still. A container cold, and left alone, A bleak and empty vessel of stone. I shiver slightly, the memory’s grace Of that perfect heat still haunts this place, Wondering why such a feeling could flee, And depart so completely from me.
A good friend once told me that this is how depression feels. I do not have depression. I have anxiety. But I thought it was an interesting metaphor for depression. I wanted to write it down to give some awareness. He said once the cold hits you, you feel like the warmth will never come back.
