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I am the silence that speaks
I cannot cry the tears
that rise when my heart breaks.
So I draw them as words.
Each letter,
a silent scream.
I am a mute soul,
my voice sealed in ink.
My pages speak for me.
I am the stillness
between breath and ache,
a quiet presence
that tides through pain—
not broken,
but breaking open.
I am a boat
adrift on a sacred river,
with a wound in my side—
still floating,
still treading water,
afraid,
yet held by unseen hands.
I am the blank page—
so white,
so still—
and every word I write
is the echo of my emptiness
becoming full.
I am not just this ache,
not just this ink.
I am the hush beneath the storm,
the spark that refuses to dim.
I am the silence that speaks.
Copyright ©
Prashna Shrestha
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