Mornings of silence with notebooks
Multiple blankets piled around
Searching for answers and deeper meaning
Within inexplicable lack of sound

Sharpness of my pencil scratching
Fills my body with calming joy
The quiet still holds only questions
So solitude's presence I merely enjoy

Just listening to my heart thump steady
I turn emotion into art
If eyes are windows to the soul
Poetry is a peephole to the heart