One Poem, One Truth

One Poem, One Truth

A Midnight Gathering of Words and Wounds

Bright yellow, slapped onto the town bulletin board between a lost cat poster and a flyer for a garage sale that had already happened.

One poem , One Truth it read, scrawled in loopy handwriting.

Unofficial Challenge — National Poetry Month. One poem. One voice. One truth. Meet under the clock tower, April 30th, midnight. Bring your soul.

There was no name. No phone number. No prize.

Just those words.

And in a town like Millbrooke, where nothing much happened beyond bake sales and mild scandals at the PTA, it caused a stir.

1. The Teen With Too Many Feelings

Mara found the note while waiting for her ride after school. Her hoodie was too big, her backpack too heavy, and her heart—always—was too loud.

She peeled the sticky from the board and stared at it like it was written just for her.

She’d written poems since fifth grade. Scribbled into the margins of her math homework, typed frantically into her Notes app in the middle of the night. But she’d never read one out loud. Never shared.

People didn’t get her. Especially not her parents. Her mom called it “melodrama.” Her dad called it “just a phase.”

But the note? It said bring your soul.

She folded it carefully and tucked it into her sketchbook.

2. The Widower With Dusty Notebooks

Mr. Granger hadn’t written a poem in twelve years. Not since Elaine passed. They used to write together—she’d sit by the window with tea, and he’d read her his lines until she smiled or raised her eyebrows.

She was his best editor. His best everything.

After she died, he boxed up the notebooks. Sealed the words away like fossils.

But then he saw the sticky note on his way to the bakery. He paused. Read it twice. His heart thumped strangely in his chest.

One truth, it said.

He thought of the poem he never finished. The last one. The one that started:

I still pour two cups of coffee,

Though I take mine black and yours stays full.

He didn’t take the note, but he remembered the date.

April 30th. Midnight. Under the clock tower.

He wasn’t sure he’d go.

But he started writing again.

3. The Jock With the Secret

Jaden was known for three things:

Football.

Being tall.

And never losing a game of beer pong.

No one knew he wrote poetry.

Not even his best friend.

He kept it hidden in a locked Notes folder, labeled “Class Stuff.” Inside were stanzas about pressure and loneliness, about not being able to cry even when he wanted to, about the way his mom stopped smiling after the divorce.

The sticky note felt like a dare.

Bring your soul?

Did he have that kind of courage?

He wasn’t sure. But he set a reminder for April 30th anyway.

Just in case.

4. The Girl Who Put Up the Note

Her name was June.

She was new in town. Moved from Chicago with her dad after things went wrong—though she didn’t say what that meant.

She wore mismatched socks, read books with spines falling apart, and always had a pen behind her ear.

June believed poetry could save people.

It saved her. Over and over.

She didn’t expect anyone to actually show up under the clock tower. But something inside her had needed to try. To put out a call.

Calling all poets.

Calling all lonely hearts. Calling all misfits and maybe’s and nearly broken things.

She just wanted to see who would answer.

April 30th, 11:59 p.m.

The clock tower stood in the center of town, looming like an old grandfather counting down breaths. The square was usually empty at night. Silent except for the occasional raccoon or streetlight buzz.

But tonight?

They came.

First Mara, clutching her sketchbook like a life raft. Then Mr. Granger, in his brown coat, with a notebook under one arm. Jaden appeared not long after, in a hoodie with the hood pulled low.

Then a couple. Then a girl with green hair. A man in scrubs. A kid with a stutter. A woman in a wheelchair. A boy who looked no older than ten.

By 12:04, there were seventeen people standing under the tower.

Some nervous. Some curious. Some already crying.

And then June stepped forward, holding a lantern and a backpack full of candles.

She lit one. Set it in the center.

“Welcome,” she said softly. “This isn’t a contest. There’s no stage. No clapping. Just truth. If you have words, you’re in the right place.”

No one moved.

So June started.

She pulled out a page. Cleared her throat. Her voice trembled—but only once.

Sometimes I wake up

And I don’t know what part of me is real.

Just this skin,

Just this fear,

Just this need to be held without being tamed.

I’m not whole,

But I’m trying.

And if you are too—

That’s enough.

Silence.

Then Mara stepped forward.

Her hands shook.

But she read anyway.

My mom says I feel too much.

So I stopped telling her

When I want to disappear into the floor.

Instead, I write:

“The sky is a bruise and so am I.”

And maybe that’s not a poem.

But maybe it’s enough

To keep breathing another day.

Mr. Granger followed. He had tears in his beard.

I still pour two cups of coffee.

Yours goes cold. I drink mine slow,

Pretending you're still here to scold me for the sugar.

This poem ends with silence.

And that silence says,

“I still love you.”

Jaden was last.

He didn’t read from his phone. He just looked up at the stars.

People say I’m strong.

But they don’t see the nights I lie awake

Wishing someone would ask me if I’m okay.

This is me, asking myself.

And for once, maybe I’ll answer.

They stayed there until 2 a.m., passing around poems and tissues and cups of coffee someone had brought in a thermos. No names needed. Just verses.

By the end, the candles were melted stubs, and the air was full of something no one could name—something warm and brave and sacred.

Before they left, June put down another sticky note:

YOU SHOWED UP.

YOU MATTER.

KEEP WRITING.

The Day After

Word spread.

Someone put up a flyer: Clock Tower Poetry Circle – Every Month, Same Spot.

More came the next time.

And the next.

Teachers. Teenagers. Retired nurses. Mechanics. Quiet girls with loud thoughts. Loud boys with quiet hearts.

Poetry was no longer hidden. It was painted on sidewalks in chalk. Scribbled in bathroom stalls. Shared over library desks and cafeteria tables.

The town changed.

Or maybe it always had the soul of a poem—waiting for someone to read it aloud.