I write a million words, erase thousands more

I write a million words, erase thousands more, trying to express what I feel, yet I have never penned a single poem I could call ideal. Ten unfinished poems, twenty unwritten letters, thirty topics I couldn't bring myself to write, and fifty stories that remain untold. A hundred poems wait to be posted, many wounds yearning to be revealed, but none of them have ever explained the pain I have always concealed. An autumn wind whispers secrets to me, fallen leaves dance around me, in a ballet of melancholy, and I, lost in the stream of my consciousness, wander through a labyrinth of memories, where every corner hides a metaphor of unfulfilled longing. Words weave in my mind like threads of gold, delicate but fragile, and yet, when I try to grasp them, they unravel, leaving me in an oppressive silence. I wonder if I will ever find those perfect words, that magical combination to reveal the truth from my heart, but with every attempt, I am left only with fragments of thoughts, unfinished words and unfulfilled dreams. I wander in a forest of metaphors, where trees are unwritten poems and every leaf is a lost rhyme. I try to find the path to clarity, but all I encounter are shadows of the past, echoes of unspoken words. It's as if my heart is an old book, with pages yellowed by time, that no one had the courage to read. Every night, when silence settles over the world, I sit at my desk and let my thoughts flow onto paper, but with every line written, I feel the pain deepen. My poems become graves for unspoken feelings, and I, a scribe of my own suffering, continue to write, hoping that one day, words will manage to heal me. But until then, I remain a graveyard of unspoken words, a museum of poems that no one reads, and on paper, quietly, I bleed.