The good sleep, they say, is when silence wins—
but mine comes when the worst begins.
Eyes closed, but the world still screams,
in shadows stitched between my dreams.

Pain waits like luggage left behind,
tagged with truths I tried to unwind.
It boards the train without a name,
to where the stars forget the flame.

No ticket back, no platform light,
just echoes riding into night.
If this is rest, then let me roam
until the end, or some kind of home.

Let I Rest

Let I rest, I say,
Slowly place my soul in sleep,
Where wandering is living,
And learning sings deep.

With each soul I meet,
A mirage in the sand,
I wake as a whisper,
A touch, a hand fades.

Fighting for peace,
With the body I roam,
Yet longing for silence,
A place to call home.

So let I rest, I say,
Like a feather on air,
Drifting in knowing,
No burden to bear.

Sometimes,
our faces betray the wars within,
a silent rebellion of muscles and skin—
sadness etched so perfectly
it speaks louder than words.

And they say,
"You’re changing."
But how do you explain the ache
of building a world inside yourself?
A place where happiness tiptoes,
fragile and fleeting,
hidden beneath the shield you wear.

What they see is not the truth,
only the armor—
a mask forged from silence,
held together by the fear
of breaking it too soon.

And yet, there comes a moment,
when even the shield cracks.
When I turn to my inner voice,
that stubborn overseer,
and say:
"Mr. Consciousness, do your work.
Strip me bare. Let them see."

Because sometimes,
even the dumb silence of trying
is its own kind of strength. (Me helped by conci):