In the world of poetry, I surrender,
Lay my trembling soul on paper—
Ink becomes the language of my ache,
Each line a quiet confession.
My heart bleeds in silent,
And my pen learns how to speak—
Of laughter--
Of shadows---
That refuse to leave.
Memories rise like restless tides,
Soft as love, sharp as goodbye,
Holding both the warmth of yesterday
And the sting that asks me why.
It is ruin and rapture entwined,
A beautiful, aching art—
And so I start to write—
again, again—
Until the pain begins to choose:
Not to break me into silence,
But to become my muse.