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Poem

In the depths of the night, under a sky painted with stars,
Why do I write, you ask? Because my voice is a prisoner,
Chained behind a mask that muffles my cries,
Whenever I want to say something clearly,
I feel the world turns a deaf ear.
In weariness, I gaze at my pen,
A silent companion, a vessel for my soul,
I pour my feelings into ink once more,
Hoping that the words will find their way
Into the hearts of those who seek to understand.
When I hold the pen, my thoughts and emotions flow freely,
Like a river breaking a dam,
Captured on paper, each word a drop of my essence,
Where they find solace in the embrace of poetry.
The ink dances on the page,
Weaving stories of pain, joy, and longing,
Each line a whisper of my soul's deepest secrets,
A bridge between my silent heart and the outside world.
My voice, though muffled by the mask,
Finds its freedom in the written word,
A magic that transforms the intangible into the tangible,
A spell that binds my scattered thoughts into a coherent whole.
In this silent ritual, I find my peace,
In the act of writing, I reclaim my voice,
For in the realm of ink and paper,
My soul speaks without restraint,
And in the quiet of the night,
My words become a symphony of unspoken truths.
So I write, not just to be heard,
But to give my inner world a place to breathe,
A sanctuary where my emotions can unfold,
In the timeless dance of poetry,
Where each verse is a step towards understanding,
And each poem a journey into the heart of my existence.

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