Inspired by the poem, “what can a poem do?” by Darius V. Daughtry
By Lina Norris-Raman, TIWP Student

A poem cannot stop time,
but it can still a recurring thought.
It can quiet the chaos,
slow the churn of overthinking.

It cuts through walls of anxiety
like a flood through San Francisco—
rushing, breaking,
dismantling intention and purpose
until the mind lies in ruins,
ready to be rebuilt,
ready for a new beginning,
a new aim.

A poem cannot stop a bullet
once it’s left the chamber—
but it can heal someone
before they ever reach for the gun.

A powerful word can transcend,
can echo,
can make someone realize their life is worth living.
A single stanza can become a mantra—
something to hold onto
when everything else slips away.

A poem cannot stop a pill from being swallowed.
It cannot stop a punch from being thrown.
But it can stop.
It can pause the moment.
Make you think.
It can stop a smart person
from doing a reckless thing—
a thing they thought
was the only way out.

If that person—brilliant, hurting—
poured everything onto a page,
not just ink
but essence,
not just ink
but a warfield,
not just ink
but someone’s story,
their own story—
maybe their hand would move
until it wrote
the exact words
they’ve been waiting to hear
their entire life.

Five words can change a person:
You are more than this.

A poem cannot stop a dictator—
but it can name them.
It can strip away the gold
and show the rust beneath.
It can call them what they are:
Cruel.
And that naming
is its own kind of rebellion.
Maybe even the dictator writes and writes
until they too
see their own reflection
in the truth they tried to silence.

A poem cannot create euphoria,
not permanently—
not even contentment,
But it can open a release valve
for what’s locked inside.

It can give voice
to the ache of being unseen.
To the quiet desperation
of needing someone—
anyone—
to ask if you’re okay
and mean it.
To notice
how you’ve changed,
how your smile is thinner,
how your laugh now comes with an echo.
Or maybe you haven’t changed at all.
Maybe you’ve always been this way?
Who knows,
your mind blurs the lines.
A poem could clear the fog,
you can write things you never even knew,
not if you searched and racked your brain
but when you write it just flows ?
like a power taking over you.

But instead,
when they ask how you’re doing,
you do the math,
calculate the risk,
and lie.

You stay quiet.

Later, in the silence of night,
you scribble in your notebook:
I am not okay.
And you write.
And write.
And write.
Until the storm in your stomach
settles just enough
to let you sleep.

And no one ever knew.

Maybe all you needed
was a hug.
Or maybe—
you just needed
to write,
because that is what a poem can do.