In the depths of the night, under a sky painted with stars

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.