Tired of poems, of stories told,
Of chasing dreams that never hold.
Of ends and starts that feel the same,
A hollow echo with no name.
I long to lose myself in crowds,
Where silence lives beneath the loud.
To find a place I’d call my own,
A hearth, a heart, a kind of home.
To play again with skies so wide,
No weight to bear, no need to hide.
To walk a beach with naked feet,
Or climb where sky and summit meet.
But if not joy, then let me weep,
And sob until the hurt runs deep.
For all the dark I cannot flee,
The storm that still resides in me.
May 3, 2025
May 3, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
Tired of poems, of stories told,
Of chasing dreams that never hold.
Of ends and starts that feel the same,
A hollow echo with no name.
I long to lose myself in crowds,
Where silence lives beneath the loud.
To find a place I’d call my own,
A hearth, a heart, a kind of home.
To play again with skies so wide,
No weight to bear, no need to hide.
To walk a beach with naked feet,
Or climb where sky and summit meet.
But if not joy, then let me weep,
And sob until the hurt runs deep.
For all the dark I cannot flee,
The storm that still resides in me.