I wish I could project the past,
Play every scene and frame it fast,
A channel made of memory’s hue,
So all I love could see it too

They’d see the tremble in my hand,
The way my breath would barely stand,
The way a glance could make me break,
The way all of me was more than fake

Poetry mimics what hearts convey,
It paints with words that we can’t say
Though poetry holds pain and grace,
It cannot write a warm embrace

I’ve got stories to tell, whole worlds in my head,
But the ink runs dry when I’m close to the thread
Some things are sacred, too real to share,
Moments too fragile for open air