No thunder breaks, no lightning flares,
just quiet storms that no one shares.
The sky is grey, but so am I,
and no one asks the reasons why.

I walk through crowds with hollow grace,
a borrowed smile upon my face.
Inside, the walls begin to cave,
each breath a battle I had to brave.

The world keeps turning, loud and bright,
but in my soul, there is no light.
Midnight in a midday hour,
my joy a wilted, ghostly flower.

I’ve cried beneath a clouded sky,
let raindrops mask the reason why.
Each teardrop blends and hides its name,
a perfect cloak for quiet shame.

They see the rain but not the ache,
the fractured heart that doesn’t break.
My pain is still, without a sound,
like roots that rot beneath the ground.

But sometimes, when the downpour clears,
a glimmer shines between the tears.
A softness in the afterglow,
a voice inside that starts to grow.

It says you’re here, and that is brave.
You’re not the flood you couldn’t stave.
You’re not the weight, the wound, the stain.
You are the one who walked through rain.