All is busy,  
Tangled in their own rush,  
Wrapped in the importance of their world,  
A world that pulls them far from me.

I long to pour out,  
To speak my heart,  
But not in idle chatter,  
Not in words that fall flat.

Yet, they are all choked—  
Choked with the weight of their headaches,  
Their heartaches,  
Lost in their own silent battles.

So here, I remain—  
Turning inward,  
Opening my heart in prayer,  
Or letting my pen bleed truth,  
In the quiet spaces where I am free.