Dark sparkle, soft steel
Quiet isn’t weakness. Soft isn’t small. Here are a few poems that live in the space where tenderness and power share the same heartbeat.
She wears precision like perfume—
not to be pleasing,
but to be certain.
The world calls her calm
as if calm is the absence of fire,
not the discipline of holding it.
Her kindness is not a surrender.
It is a blade with a velvet handle.
She cuts through doubt
without raising her voice—
and somehow the room learns
to breathe again.
She doesn’t argue with thunder.
She brings the data.
A gentle smile, a steady hand—
and suddenly the impossible
is just a problem
waiting to be solved.
She refuses to shrink
into someone else’s comfort.
She is gravity in lipstick:
lovely, undeniable,
pulling futures toward her
without asking permission.
Some brilliance blooms at noon.
Hers opens after midnight—
when everyone else has left,
and the silence becomes a doorway.
She steps through it,
and returns carrying answers.
When the world makes a habit
of doubting her name,
she writes it again—
not in ink,
but in outcomes.
She remains.