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Poem

"Is poetry our friend or an enemy?" asked someone who often loses themselves among words,
to someone who finds themselves in pages written with the shadows and lights of the mind.
The writer smiled with that vague smile, like a reflection in a mirror that doesn't reveal the whole story,
A smile you offer to a stranger you meet in the mirror of your destiny.
"The reader finds a friend," he said, "but the writer discovers a mirror that reflects the entire soul."
"A mirror?" asked the man, puzzled by the meaning hidden in words like an echo in the night.
The writer's gaze drifted into the depths of time, seeking answers in unwritten memories.
"To read means to feel seen through the prism of another's pain, a balm for unseen wounds,
But to write means to recognize that the pain is already within you, a river flowing silently through your veins."
"When I write, I see fragments of the soul, buried pains, and unspoken rages like hidden storms,
A loneliness that screams in silence, finding a voice on paper to break the deep quiet,
Things never confessed until the ink becomes a traitor, mercilessly revealing them.
Poetry is a mirror that doesn't reflect the face but the depths of the mind, where chaotic thoughts dance."
"Thoughts that emerge when the world sleeps, when the shadows of the night tell their unknown secrets.
Sometimes I read what I've written and feel like a stranger dwelling unseen in forgotten corners of the soul.
Writing is like bleeding slowly, and the pain gradually turns into art, like a flower blooming from ashes.
I wonder if the pen is an instrument of beauty or the sharpest knife I've ever held."

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