In the midst of worldly tumult
Where troubles never cease,
I find my solace in the words
To attain a sense of inner peace.
Some seek refuge in a glass,
Or other fleeting thrills,
I wield my pen to extract my woes
And convert them into a quill.
For when my soul is torn apart,
And anguish grips my mind,
I turn to writing as my balm,
And solace I can find.
I wasn't born a poet,
But life has carved its way,
Into my heart, my mind, and my soul,
And left its marks to stay.
So I'll keep penning through the night,
My pain, my joy, my strife,
For every word that flows from me,
Is a celebration of life.