#silent observer

Calvin Laituri, “V. It watched through the doorway, a silent observer”

Do you think mirrors get tired of our faces? Seeing the same glossy eyes no one else gets to see, the same practiced smile so no one asks if you're doing okay, hearing the same "I'm okay" speech incase someone does ask and trying not to cry when rehearsing it?

Do you think stars get tired of being romanticized? Do you think they feel pain? Burning, hurting, but bright is all people see. Fading slowly, fading painfully, but no one even notices because people only pay attention when it's all bright. Do you think what we consider beauty and romantic is just the sky setting itself on fire just so we'd look up? Just so we'd admire it even as it hurts because people find it hard to love the dark?

I ask you these questions in hope that maybe my crooked eyesight matches yours. Maybe we look at the world in the same tilted angle, so Dear Poet i ask you in hopes that in between your rhythmic lines, in-between your pain in ink and black & white I'll find answers, or maybe just....the comfort of knowing I'm not alone in asking.

Yours truly,

A Silent Observer.

Through the Same Cracked Glass

Dear Silent Observer,

Yes, I think mirrors grow weary of our face, Of glossy eyes rehearsed in practiced grace. They’ve heard “I’m fine” delivered smooth and neat, Watched courage tremble, swallow tears, retreat.

They know the smile we sharpen for the day, The one that keeps the questions tucked away. If mirrors felt, they’d ache behind the frame, Seeing the wound we never dare to name.

And yes, the stars. I think they hurt as well. People call it magic; I call it a spell. They burn, they break, they fade in silent pain, Yet all we praise is how they brightly reign.

We love the glow, ignore the cost it took, Applaud the fire, but never truly look. Maybe the sky’s just setting itself aflame So we’ll look up and crown the hurt as “beautiful” by name.

Yes, I’ve also watched good things break without a sound, Watched kindness buried six feet underground. I’ve seen the kindest hearts learn how to close, Because the world keeps stepping on their toes.

I’ve seen truth choke inside a crowded room, While louder lies were given space to bloom. We teach ourselves to shrink, to disappear, Because being honest costs too much out here.

I’ve seen dreams rot politely on a shelf, Labelled someday by a tired self. Promises fade, not with a scream but sighs, Like stars that die behind indifferent skies.

People survive by learning how to numb, Call it “growing up,” call it “becoming dumb.” We clap for strength, but flinch at open scars, We love the shine, but never tend the stars.

So yes, I see it too. The cynical truth. The quiet grief. The disillusioned youth. This world is sharp. It bruises when it holds. It takes the softest hearts and makes them cold.

I see the world through lenses cracked and bent, Through chipped-up glass and crooked discontent.

But darling Anon, please listen close, because here’s the part Where broken things begin to make their art.

A shattered lens doesn’t only distort, Sometimes it shows more than the perfect sort. Like kaleidoscopes born of fractured sight, The cracks split sorrow into shards of light.

What looks like damage starts to rearrange, Turns grief to colour, pain to something strange. The world doesn’t vanish when the glass is flawed, It multiplies. It softens. It feels awed.

Maybe mirrors don’t tire, they learn how to stay, Stand guard over selves we abandon each day. They don’t flinch at the fracture, don’t turn when we fall, They hold every version and call it us all.

And stars aren’t weak for the way that they give, They are proof that to burn is another way to live. They spend themselves slowly in oceans of night, So the lost know the dark still remembers the light.

If we see sideways, tilted, undone, It’s not because we’re broken. It’s because we’ve run Our hands along the edges others flee, And learned that pain refracts honesty.

Your words didn’t burden me. They made me smile. They made me sit with my thoughts a while. Because in your questions, sharp and true, You saw the world the same way I do.

So no, you’re not alone in the way you see. We’re looking through the same cracked symmetry. And maybe beauty isn’t found in the flame, But in how it survives without needing a name.

Dead-end streets are paved with rash speech, Frustration and folly are lessons they teach. “I took the wrong road,” we mutter in vain, “There’s no turning back”—yet the lesson remains.

Let only goodness slip past your lips, Let wisdom guide the words your tongue equips. Let anger dissolve in the mind’s quiet stream, And fear be released before it can scream.

Each pause is a gate, each silence a choice, Every thought weighed, every word voiced. For the tongue can destroy, or it can create, While the mind decides the seeds we cultivate.

So speak with light, let your soul take the lead, Let the heart be your compass, the mind your creed. And when the road darkens, and tempers inflame, Let goodness guide speech, and wisdom tame.

A poem I wrote about choosing words carefully

Ich war nicht der einzige Beobachter

It's not just a feeling—you are being watched.

They say the tongue is strong and words attract,

What about the overthinking mind

And all the words we can't take back?

Do they also act as a magnet,

Or does that only happen when we unpack?

This piece is lacking, for it is my first poem; still, I wished to share it with my inspiration 〔you〕 before I let it go.

Happy new years Star-Teller(Cheers to writing my first poem)

Signed,

Silent Observer

I think they do, those thoughts you keep, Even the ones you never speak. They learn our shape, they know our pull, Quiet, patient, beautiful.

Unpacked or not, they still are real, Still know what we refuse to feel. Some words don’t need a voice to stay, They find their meaning anyway.