where my silence finds its voice

sometimes,

emotions swirl

like a tempest within,

too vast and deep

for ordinary language.

but poetry,

gives shape to the shapeless

voice to the silent scream

trapped in the ribcage.

scribbling on pages,

the act itself a balm,

lifting spirits

from the depths

to the surface

where the air tastes lighter,

and lungs open like morning blooms.

through verses,

we find kinship

in the rawness of being human,

even when the world seems

oblivious to the shadows

we battle daily.

not everyone will grasp

the weight of a storm cloud

hovering inside a chest,

but in poetry,

we are understood,

we are seen.