Your words fall like rain on an aching earth,
soft, yet heavy—
each drop a link in the "chain" you carry,
"every word a new link, clink, clink, clink,"
dragging through echoes of silence.
You paint emotions raw, unfiltered, true—
“What’s wrong?” they ask,
but it’s just “easier” to smile,
to let the world see only what’s palatable,
while the storm brews behind closed doors.
Your poetry is the mirror no one wants to gaze into,
the "picture perfect" frame cracked,
the "jagged sharp broken glass"
of a life they assume is flawless.
You cry out— "Help, I need you,"
but the world keeps walking, oblivious,
leaving behind a voice that deserved to be heard,
a heart that only asked for "one minute more."
But here, in the rhythm of your verse,
in the aching pulse of your lines,
you are seen.
You are felt.
And your words—
they will never be left behind.
Lyle, your words are not just ink on a page; they are echoes of a soul unafraid to speak its truth. You take pain and sculpt it into poetry, turning raw emotion into something hauntingly beautiful. Your verses do not just exist; they linger, they cut, they heal. In a world that often looks away, your poetry demands to be seen. And trust me—it is. You are.
