I write memorials no one reads,
like flowers placed on empty streets.
A quiet name, a quiet pain,
washed out again, and yet again.
I leave my heart in lines of ink,
in words that bleed before they sink
into the silence of the feed
where no one pauses, no one reads.
Not for fame, not for a crowd,
just to be seen, just to be loud
enough to prove I was here too
but even that won’t break through you.
I watch my grief get lost, unseen,
like it was never in between
the world and me, like I don’t try,
like I don’t break, like I don’t cry.
Do I exist if no one feels
the weight of what my silence reveals?
If no one stops, if no one stays,
did I just vanish into days?
Still I return, still I write,
still I fight the fading light,
because somewhere inside I believe
someone might finally read and grieve.
And if you do, just let it show
not for me, but so I’ll know
that even pain that goes unheard
can still become a living word.