'Milk and Honey' was written with me being honest to myself

“‘Milk and Honey’ was written with me being honest to myself, kind of pulling at the things that I hear the most and saying that out loud, and you know, that thing that we hear the most is most universal, and so that rings true with all folks. The language used in the poetry is extremely, extremely accessible.” Thus speaks Rupi Kaur, a poet of the present age, whose words travel quickly across screens and pages into the hearts of millions. In her confession lies a principle as old as art itself: that truth, when spoken simply and honestly, becomes a mirror in which countless souls can see themselves.

The meaning of this saying lies in the power of honesty and accessibility. Kaur does not claim that her work is ornamented or hidden behind layers of abstraction. Instead, she insists on stripping language down until only what is essential remains: the voice of the heart, spoken plainly. In this plainness is strength, for the most universal truths are often the ones closest to us, truths we hear again and again in our own lives—love, loss, pain, healing. By writing them out loud, she transforms the private into the collective.

The origin of this approach can be found in the tradition of confessional and spoken-word poets. Writers like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton dared to write with raw honesty, opening the wounds of their lives so others could recognize their own. In another sphere, poets of the Harlem Renaissance and later the spoken-word movement embraced accessibility, creating verses meant not only for scholars but for communities, to be read, heard, and shared. Kaur inherits this lineage, though in her own way: with brevity, directness, and the courage to make poetry accessible to millions.

Consider also the story of Sappho, the ancient Greek poet. Her fragments, simple and direct, have survived for centuries not because they were elaborate, but because they were honest. In a handful of lines, she gave voice to longing, tenderness, and despair—emotions that remain universal even thousands of years later. Just as Kaur explains, when the poet writes what she herself hears most deeply, she speaks also for all people. The voice of one heart becomes the voice of humanity.

The lesson here is that we do not need grand complexity to speak truths that endure. In fact, too much complexity can obscure the heart of a message. Accessible language is not weakness, but generosity—it opens the door for all to enter, not just the few trained in literary codes. When we are brave enough to say aloud what hurts, what heals, what we long for, we give others the courage to recognize their own hidden feelings. This is why her work resonates: because it invites everyone into the circle of poetry.

Practically, this means that when we write, speak, or create, we should strive for honesty first, clarity second, and adornment only if it serves the truth. Ask yourself: what do I hear most often in my own life? What refrain keeps returning to my heart? Speak that. Do not worry if it seems too simple, for what is simple to you may be universal to others. And in your daily life, practice this same openness: speak plainly with those you love, for honesty is always the beginning of healing.

Thus the teaching endures: poetry that is honest and accessible becomes a bridge across all divisions. Rupi Kaur’s words remind us that the truths we whisper to ourselves are often the very truths the world most longs to hear. Let us then have the courage to speak them—not in tangled words, but in the language of the heart—so that others, hearing them, may recognize themselves and know they are not alone. For in that moment, the private pain becomes a universal song.