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Poem
In the labyrinth of my mind, where echoes of ancient whispers intertwine,
I ponder, if my words don't define me, then what am I?
Not a poet by trade,
Nor an artist with vivid and divine brush strokes.
If I am not my scars,
Then what tragedy weaves the tapestry of my essence?
Are they the screams on the walls of empty nights, or the ink seeping beneath my chaotic desk?
If not the lines on my wrists,
The broken recorder endlessly repeating, or
The scattered pages on the floor,
Then who am I?
I am neither a saint,
Nor a sinner.
Perhaps just a shadow with dreams too heavy to find their place.
I am but a whisper in the wind,
A burden heavy on celestial scales.
A face in the mirror, a loop in the cosmic plot.
A broken star with wishes lost in the void.
If the scars aren't the ones to define me,
Then what would, if you had to truly see me?
For your vision would differ from the reflections I perceive.
Touch me, touch the moon,
And I’d tell you I dwell in the craters of the dark.
Tell me I sparkle like a star, and I’d remind you how often they are overlooked.
Unless you look beyond the barriers of the personas I hold,
And find the courage to compare me to metaphors I feel unworthy of,
Perhaps then, I might believe you.
In this mystic stream of consciousness, where reality merges with introspection,
I unfold through metaphors painting my soul in shades of melancholy.
I am the whisper of forgotten dreams,
The shadow cast by an unseen sun,
A melody unheard, a tale untold.
Each scar, a silent testament to battles fought within,
Each word, a fragment of a deeper truth,
Lost amidst the chaos of my existence.
I am the ink that stains the pages,
The breath that fogs the mirror,
The silence that speaks louder than words ever could.
In the depths of my being, where light and shadow dance in sacred union,
I search for meaning, for a sense of self beyond the scars and words.
In the quiet moments of solitude,
I catch fleeting glimpses of who I might truly be,
A soul adrift in a sea of infinite possibilities,
A constellation of fractured moments, yet whole.
And maybe, just maybe,
If you look beyond the visible,
Past the scars and the metaphors,
You might see the essence of who I am,
A broken star still capable of shining,
A whisper in the wind still carrying meaning,
A soul still capable of belief.
In the twilight of my thoughts, where shadows weave ancient spells,
I find myself, a mystic wanderer,
Lost yet searching, broken yet whole,
A silent testament to the dance of the cosmos,
Eternally intertwined with the mysteries of existence.
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