Dan Enache Poet Free verse

The Unread Words Written for the One

The Unread Words Written for the One

Everyone reads what I write in the silence of my nights when the moon watches me sadly,
except the one for whom these words are meant written with my naked soul,
they never read my texts that float toward them like petals in autumn wind,
they will never read the words I write with my heart trembling from pure pain,

And I ask myself if I still have any meaning in this vast and cold universe,
do these words mean something real or are they just a lullaby for the wind,
for a heart that forgot how to sleep peacefully under a sky full of long-dead stars?
Maybe I write just to lie that my deep silence was a free choice I made,

Not a sentence the world carved into my soul with sharp knives of cold metal,
I sewed my mouth shut with thread made of shame that weighs on me like a heavy lead cloak,
the same shame they threw at me like stones in front of everyone watching,
just because I exist in this world just because I breathe air I don't yet deserve,

Now only the page listens in silence to my words that flow like a dark river at night,
it takes my guilt as if accustomed to its weight that suffocates me constantly,
lets my pain spill and settle on it like dust on forgotten furniture in the attic,
like smoke rising in a locked room where no one can enter to save me,

And when I write I drag up the ghost of my past that won't let me live in peace,
just to bury it again deeper in the cold earth where it no longer sees the sun,
deeper so maybe this time it will stay there and won't return to haunt me at night,
this isn't beautiful poetry this is an open body bleeding on my white pages,

Each reader becomes a witness who sees the deep cut that can never heal,
the blood that flows endlessly the wound that never closed since I began,
except for the one who was supposed to see it with their eyes but never looked my way,
the one for whom I write every word every line every poem in my long lonely nights,

I write to hide the pain to pretend my silence was my choice and no one else's,
not the sentence they gave me for daring to exist in their perfect and cold world,
I sewed my mouth with the threads of their shame that dressed me in very heavy guilt clothes,
now only the paper takes my burden and keeps it in its pages that never judge anyone,

The pain spills like smoke that falls slowly in empty rooms where no one enters for years,
I drag the ghost to bury it again to get it out of my mind tired from so much fighting,
this isn't true poetry this is an open body everyone can see bleeding always,
each reader sees the wound that bleeds forever without ever healing somehow.

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