Poetry is how I bleed without the mess.
How I speak when my voice wont come out clean.  

It starts as a weight,
A feeling without a name,
A storm sitting in my chest asking for shape.
So I give it words.
Not perfect ones, but honest.
Soft where it hurts, sharp where I hide.

Each line is a thread pulled straight from the center of what I can’t explain in small talk or passing glances.
It’s not just writing,
It’s translating the language of the inside into something others might read and feel and say,
“Me too”
That’s the magic.

Poetry makes pain visible,
Makes love echo,
Makes silence speak.

It’s lot just mine anymore once it’s written,
It becomes something I share,
It becomes theirs too.

And suddenly,
We’re not so alone anymore.