I feel as though I have so much to say,
a world buried beneath my ribs,
yet when I reach for the pen,
or let my fingers touch the keys,
nothing arrives.
It is not emptiness,
but something heavier,
like grief without a name,
like sorrow without a door.
Perhaps it’s not the lack of thought
but the absence of an audience,
or maybe I’ve mistaken silence
for the sound of a heart trying to speak.
My head swims in melancholia,
slow-moving fog
of childhood echoes,
unspoken farewells,
ghosts of joy
too fragile to survive the telling.
These are not stories,
they are remnants.
Not tales to entertain,
but fragments to be honored.
I want to write them down.
I want the world to see
the museum of my ache.
But the words retreat,
and what pours out
is silence,
not the kind that soothes,
but the kind that strangles.
I sit with too much feeling
and too few phrases.
I long to stitch my sorrow
into something beautiful,
to give grief a body,
to hold memory in my hand
and say:
this is what it cost me.
I don’t need applause.
I need a witness.
A sanctuary where nostalgia
is not weakness,
where ache is not indulgence,
where even a trembling voice
is enough.
So I return to the page,
again and again,
not because the words come,
but because they might,
because inside the silence,
something stirs.
Because inside the grief,
a story still waits
to be born.
inspired to aspire 