I have never been athletic or artistic, Never the smart, never the kind. Always quiet, a shadow on the margins, Escaping into the refuge of ink-stained pages.
At home, too, I am the quiet one, A soft echo in the hallways, a breath held. As I look at the ground, its patterns etched in my soul, I hear the snickers, like pebbles skipping across water. The glares and the pointed fingers wondering how I can keep up with this "facade".
This was never an act; it is my chosen path, A lifestyle carved from the marrow of solitude. I wear silence like a cloak, its folds concealing The symphony of thoughts that dance within.
In a world of noise, I find solace in whispers, The rustle of leaves, the hush of falling snow. My mind, a secret garden where words bloom, Each petal delicate, each stem reaching for the light.
They call me introverted, but I am a universe— Galaxies swirling in the quiet expanse of my gaze. I am not lacking; I am abundant in the language that needs no sound, no applause, no stage. God created me for a reason so be it .
For I am not broken; I am the quiet strength that defies expectation.
So let them laugh, let them leave me out , those who mistake silence for weakness, For I am the ink that writes its own story, The brushstroke on the canvas of existence, A masterpiece of stillness, waiting to be seen.
YOU ARE READING
A whisper of words
AcakThis is poetry and also short stories, but don't look for a theme-it's like a buffet of randomness! This is my first attempt at a poem collection, so bear with me while I unleash my 'unique' writing skills.
