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Poem

I am the prisoner of my own silence,
locked in a cell made of hours and shadows,
where loneliness wraps its cold fingers around my throat,
and the light outside is nothing but a forgotten dream.
There is no escape—
no door, no window,
just the echo of a heart
that shattered long ago
and no hands left to gather its pieces.

I carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words,
each one a stone,
pressing down on my chest,
a burden heavier than time itself.
I call out to the world,
but my voice is nothing more
than the dust of past hopes,
scattered on the winds of absence.

I am both the wound and the bandage,
the broken glass and the scattered reflection,
each fragment a memory
that cuts deeper when I touch it.
And still,
no one comes to repair me,
no one hears my cries
in the hollow chambers of this soul
that has forgotten the taste of peace.

I see the world move around me,
its colors vibrant,
its people whole,
but I am a shadow beneath their feet,
a forgotten poem in a language no one understands.
The spaces between us grow wider,
and with each passing breath,
I fall deeper into the hollow that lives within me,
a place where love once bloomed
but now withers without a name.

And so I remain—
a prisoner of my own grief,
a heart too broken to heal,
too lost to be found.
There is no escape,
only the weight of time
and the endless ache of what could have been.

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