you've spent a long time weaving memories through words one might not care about
how intricate they were, and how surreal the coming and going of people has been
you have carved them the way time carves a life—slow and unrelenting
like a bard, you have sung of your grief and anger
you've been more a slave than a storyteller, a poet more than a mere human
time has made you play with words rather than face the quiet art of crying
trust is one thing you give to your paper and pen more than your friends
to you, tears were the verses you offered to the world
ink pooling like small, quiet bruises on the page
while silently waiting for someone to tap your shoulder and say:
you are allowed to grieve—
that it's okay to gather the scattered pieces of the past
and let them rot in the coffin you wouldn't dare to open again
so, for once, i am writing this poem, for i owe you grace
to let you know that you aren't a puzzle wailing to be solved
not a paper-boned kid, not strong enough to carry yourself
but a boy not bound to what's written of him
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 9:41 AM UTC