S. Smith Writes

Author of Brian the Walking Stick and Just This

Just This Hardcover Companion

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POETRY

These poems were written during a period of profound change. They explore memory, healing, loss, resilience, and the unexpected ways we find our way home to ourselves.

Shadows in My Pockets

June 2026

It is always there.At the end of a dark hallway,
the room that holds too much.Dust gathers on forgotten things.
Old griefs rest beside old fears.Regrets lie folded in quiet corners,
their edges softened by time.Nothing moves.Yet nothing leaves.For years,
I believed the room was the suffering.The memories.
The losses.
The things I could not change.But suffering was never the room.It was the weight I carried back with me
each time I stepped inside.The dust that settled on my clothes.The stories I tucked into my pockets.The shadows I carried down the hallway
and into every other room.So longI mistook its shadows for my own.

There is Music Again

May 2026

Mother’s Day used to feel like something
I had to survive.Closed curtains.
Distractions.
Anything to avoid
seeing mothers and daughters
laughing together
while I carried the ache
of what was missing.Then I became a mother,
and some of that ache softened.But this year feels different.Last year,
I stood where her story ended.
And somehow,
something inside me finally exhaled.I still long for her.
I always will.But now when I carry her,
it doesn’t feel quite so heavy.There is music again.
There is creativity.
There is joy I no longer feel guilty for touching.Like after living in the same house forever,
I discovered a room
I never knew existed inside me.And maybe that’s the healing:not moving on,
but finally allowing myself
to fully live.

Same Life, Different Light

May 2026

I spent years
believing I was hard to lovebecause the lens I inherited
could only recognize survival.Then one dayin a walking boot,
beside a piano,
with a cat watching me cry,I saw myself clearlyfor the first time.

Come Sit

March 2026

I went looking for a quiet room,
a place to sit down
without being braced for impact.That was the plan.And thensomeone smiled at me
like I mattered.Someone welcomed me
without asking me to earn it.My body paused.It didn't know what to do
with kindness that had no strings.I had a voice once,
but I taught it to whisper.Now I chant.
I walk.
I breathe.
I stay.Belonging doesn't demand perfection.It simply says,Come sit.And this time,I do.