tick, tick, tick.
tick, tick, tick.
the silence is filled
with a steady pulse.
a calming, steady rhyme.
so soft a sound, it could
send me to sleep.

then, an incessant whine
slowly feeds into my
intravenous drip.

is there ever a point in even writing when there are times I feel as if no one will ever notice my words? I need to know if I'm the only one who loses motivation in the things I love when I don't get credit for it. I don't get praised for it. I'm losing hope in this. I would think I would be appreciated here because no one could hear my voice, and refuse to listen to me. I am silenced by everyone. is there even a point..?

In shadows cast by whispered words, I tread,  
A daughter bound by chains she never chose,  
In her embrace, a chill of ice instead,  
Love, once a garden, now a field of woes.  

Her laughter echoes, sharp like winter’s bite,  
Each smile a dagger, piercing through the day,  
I long to hold her hand, to find a light,  
Yet every word exchanged just pulls away.  

I wish for skies to clear, for hearts to mend,  
To bridge this chasm carved by fear and doubt,  
Oh, how I wish for time, a faithful friend,  
To guide us both towards a kinder route.  

But here, I stand, a dreamer in the storm,  
Hoping one day we can transform this norm.

The sun spilled its golden rays across our backyard, illuminating the faded swing set that had been the backdrop of my childhood adventures. I climbed aboard, the chains creaking softly as I swayed back and forth, each motion echoing the laughter of summers long past. My mother called out from the kitchen, her voice weaving through the air like a warm breeze, reminding me about the cookies that were cooling on the counter.
  The aroma of vanilla and chocolate wafted out, wrapping around me like a comforting hug. It was in these simple moments that I realized how quickly time would slip through my fingers, much like the sand in my favorite hourglass which had found its way back to the attic, untouched but still full of promise. “Time, dear friend, is a river flowing fast,” penned in my notebook as I nestled beneath the shade of the grand oak tree.
  I often tangled with the fact that while I could capture memories in verse, I could never rewind the clock. Each swing brought new thoughts, not just of the fun I had, but of the bonds forged over afternoon snacks and heartfelt conversations. "As leaves turn to gold, and the memories unfold," came a poetic whisper in my heart, a gentle reminder that while seasons change, the essence of those moments remains embedded deep within me, ready to be revisited whenever I need a piece of my past.