I have watched grown men cry in grocery store parking lots over things they swore. They were buried years ago. Funny thing about grief it doesn't stay buried. It waits. Like an old dog on a porch listening for a truck that ain’t coming home. People talk about healing like it’s some clean white hallway with soft music playing and sunlight through the windows. That’s bullshit. Healing is eating cold pizza at two in the morning because sleep won’t touch you. It’s staring at a toothbrush that hasn’t moved in years but somehow still feels used. It’s hearing a song in Walmart and suddenly forgetting how breathing works. I used to think strength looked like mountains. Now I think it looks like an old woman showing up to work the day after her husband dies because life doesn't stop collecting rent. I think it looks like a man sitting in his truck wiping tears off his beard before walking into a room pretending he’s fine. I think it looks like survivors. And God, There are so many of us. Walking around carrying invisible fires inside our ribs. Smiling in family photos while entire wars rage quietly behind our eyes. Some people lose houses. Some lose marriages. Some lose faith. Some lose themselves so slowly they don’t even notice until one day their own laugh sounds unfamiliar. Me? I lost the future I thought I was promised. That one nearly killed me. Not all at once though life’s more artistic than that. It peeled me apart slowly. Like paint weathering off an old barn. One memory at a time. But here’s the strange part nobody tells you. The broken ones notice beauty differently. We hear loneliness in train whistles. See entire stories inside abandoned buildings. We understand storms because we’ve survived them. That’s why some of the saddest people still make the world laugh. They know darkness intimately. They learned humor the same way candles learn fire. Out of necessity. And maybe that’s what being human is not avoiding destruction but carrying hope

If you are planning to be in BOTH: • Where Our Voices Turn and • Where Our Voices Gather And if you have already paid for both anthologies, please drop your name in the comments below so I can make sure my records are accurate. 🙌 Trying to keep everything organized before we move full speed ahead into the next chapters of this series. Thank you all again for believing in this journey. Watching this anthology family grow has been something special. 🖤

🍂🌸☀️❄️ for our next anthology in The Art of Poetry Community on Skool! This month’s theme: SEASONS Each participating poet will receive 📸 4 images 🖋️ and will write 4 poems — one inspired by each image. This anthology is about transformation. The seasons outside us. The seasons within us. The winters we survived. The springs we almost gave up on. 💰 Entry Fee: $20.00 📅 All poems must be submitted by June 11th https://cash.app/$artofpoetry2026 https://buy.stripe.com/9B6cN41CPfTqeIRawO0Jq0b This series has already become something special. Writers from all over the world. Different voices. Different stories. One book filled with moments that refuse to stay silent. If you want to be part of the next anthology, now is the time. Comment below or send me a message to register. 🍁 — Jason Strickland

Welcome to The Art of Poetry. If you're here, it means one simple thing… You love words. Maybe you’ve been writing poetry for years. Maybe you just started yesterday. Either way — you belong here. This community was created as a place where poets can write, share, learn, and grow together in a supportive environment. Before jumping in, here are a few quick things to know. ✍️ 1. Introduce Yourself Start by saying hello in the comments below. Tell us: • Where you're from • How long you've been writing poetry • What kind of poetry you enjoy most We love meeting new poets. 📚 2. Explore the Classroom The Classroom is where you'll find structured lessons and resources designed to help you grow as a poet. Inside the classroom you'll find things like: • Poetry lessons and writing techniques • The Prompt Vault for endless writing inspiration • Courses for developing your voice and style • Publishing and poetry guidance If you're serious about improving your craft, the classroom is a great place to start. 📝 3. Share Your Poetry You’re welcome to post your poems anytime. Many members also ask for feedback, and this community does a great job of encouraging and supporting each other as writers. 🗓️ 4. Join Our Daily Activities We also run daily creative activities: Prompt Monday – Writing inspiration Skill Builder Tuesday – Learn something new Share Your Work Wednesday – Showcase your poetry Feedback Friday – Get helpful feedback Spotlight Saturday – Celebrate our poets Reflection Sunday – Reflect and write Jump in anytime. 🏆 Community Events We also host things like: • Poet of the Month • Poetry contests • Community book projects • Writing challenges ❤️ One Simple Rule Be kind and supportive. Poetry can be deeply personal, and we respect that here. 👇 Your Turn Drop a comment below and introduce yourself. Tell us your name and what kind of poetry you enjoy writing. We’re glad you’re here. Welcome to The Art of Poetry. — Jason Founder

There is a strange kind of silence that comes after everything falls apart. Not movie silence. Not peaceful silence. I mean the kind where the refrigerator hum sounds like a sermon, and the walls stare at you like they know you failed. Starting over from nothing is not brave in the beginning. It is humiliating. It is standing in the ruins of your own life holding a trash bag of what survived. It is selling things you once loved. It is eating cheap meals while pretending you are not scared. It is watching people disappear the second your usefulness does. And God the loneliness of rebuilding. Nobody applauds the foundation. They only celebrate the house after the lights come on. But there is something powerful about a person who learns to grow roots in scorched earth. A person who says, “I may have lost everything but I am not finished yet.” That kind of soul becomes dangerous. Because once you survive sleeping beside your broken dreams, once you learn how to rebuild with blistered hands and exhausted hope, fear loses its grip on you. You stop worshipping comfort. You stop begging for permission. You stop needing the world to believe in you first. And one morning, without even noticing, you realize the person staring back in the mirror is no longer the one who lost it all. It is someone new. Someone stronger. Someone quieter. Someone who understands that rock bottom is not a grave. It is a beginning. By Jason Strickland