The Prison of Silence

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.