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Poem

In the twilight of troubled silence, where words melt into shadows,
I delve into the labyrinth of thoughts, writing the soul's silence in notes,
Each letter born from the pulse of my hands, keeping the secret enclosed in blood.
I let the words flow from my fingers, so they wouldn't turn into screams,
To preserve the quiet of the bitterness that would have burned my throat.
I wrote all my secrets, leaving my soul bare,
Spilling everything I knew, everything I never wanted to share.
Each whisper caught on papers, each secret forced to remain unspoken,
Thoughts that ran through my mind like a herd of endless sheep.
My soul was written in notes, as my blood turned into ink,
I wrote until my hands were blackened, and my mind remained empty,
Until every strand of pain gathered in mute words,
And my thoughts were too heavy to be spoken.
So, if you ever meet me, the girl with blood-like night,
Ask me about my secrets, the ones I was forced to write,
Under the mask of silence, ask me about those shadows that keep my soul,
About wounds that heal only on paper, left in the abyss of my silences.
In the evening lights, where the echoes of dreams float silently,
Find me lost among words, lost among silences,
And you will see that the magic of melancholy flows through my veins,
A sad fairy tale, an untold story written with the ink of my life.

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