I never dreamed of being a writer. I just fell in love with words. I didn't seek a title, or praise, or fame; I simply learned to listen when they called my name. I feel them… Their longing to be seen, Their begging to be written. Like ghosts waiting for a body, Like seeds waiting for the rain, I feel every single one of them. They do not want to be trapped in the throat, They want to be embraced by the page. And that’s what I did. I gave them life.
A writer lost in thought, I wander far Beneath a cold and empty evening star. My shadow stretches down the lonely street, Where faded dreams and heavy footsteps meet, And all the vibrant colors turn to gray. My weeping pen, in silence and despair, Now traces lines of grief into the air. It bleeds the heavy truths that deeply lie, Beneath the gaze of my defeated eye, As every joyful memory slips away. To those with hearts of anger, I am low, A shattered mirror in the winter snow. They only see the flaws upon my face, A broken thing devoid of any grace, A hollow ghost of who I used to be. The eyes of love I seek are long since gone, Leaving me stranded in a bitter dawn. No tender arms are left to hold me tight, No gentle voice to guide me through the night; I fade into the dark, where none can see.