TW: Lonliness, depression
(Oh, the poignant sorrow that resides, To pen verses endlessly, yet remain unwritten, To carry the poet's mantle, to offer solace to souls, Yet wander in the shadows, seeking solace unbidden. A symphony of words, spun from the heart's abyss, Echoes of empathy, whispered in ink's embrace, Yet in the quiet hours, when moonlight weaves its veil, Yearning lingers, untouched by tender grace.)
In shadows I dwell, a pen in my hand,
Crafting worlds where emotions expand.
Lines on paper, a heart to lend,
Yet in my own tale, I never descend.
A bard of sorrow, I weave each rhyme,
For lovers and dreamers, the passage of time.
Ink-stained fingers, a weary soul,
Creating the parts, but never the whole.
I give them wings, I gift them light,
While I remain in endless night.
Every verse, a tear unshed,
I speak of love, but know it's dead.
Characters dance, they laugh, they weep,
Their stories mine to watch, to keep.
Yet in their midst, I am alone,
The poet unseen, a ghost unknown.
No one writes of the scribe's despair,
Of silent nights and vacant stare.
I script the pain, the joy, the gleam,
But never part of the cherished dream.
So here I linger, always the muse,
A painter of lives I cannot choose.
To be the poet, but never the poem,
A fate of exile, forever alone.
YOU ARE READING
Echoes of the Unspoken
PoetryHere lies a collection of poems, scattered like leaves, shared in the hope that someone might find solace and know they are not alone in their turmoil. Beware, for these poems are not for the faint of heart; they arise from the darkest recesses of m...
