I'm not sad, at least not today,
but sorrow still finds words to say.
My pen knows the paths my heart won't claim,
yet still it writes of quiet pain.
I sit in light, the sky is clear,
no heavy thoughts are living here.
Yet lines of grief begin to grow,
like seeds of things I don't know.
People ask me, "are you alright?"
when all my poems lean toward the night.
But sadness isn't always mine-
sometimes it's just a borrowed line.
Some write of love,
some write of light
I write the shadows late at night.
Not because my world is gray,
but because those words choose to stay.
So don't mistake the ink I use
for wounds of storms or heavy blues.
I'm simply someone who can see
how deep a quiet poem can be.
I'm not sad
I just write
the words
that sadness leaves behind.
🖤
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC
I'm not sad, at least not today,
but sorrow still finds words to say.
My pen knows the paths my heart won't claim,
yet still it writes of quiet pain.
I sit in light, the sky is clear,
no heavy thoughts are living here.
Yet lines of grief begin to grow,
like seeds of things I don't know.
People ask me, "are you alright?"
when all my poems lean toward the night.
But sadness isn't always mine-
sometimes it's just a borrowed line.
Some write of love,
some write of light
I write the shadows late at night.
Not because my world is gray,
but because those words choose to stay.
So don't mistake the ink I use
for wounds of storms or heavy blues.
I'm simply someone who can see
how deep a quiet poem can be.
I'm not sad
I just write
the words
that sadness leaves behind.
🖤
