They say words are fragile,
but mine are carved in fire.
Each line, a piece of breath,
each pause, a beating heart.
I do not write to be perfect,
I write to be human
to let the ache find its echo,
to let the joy find its dance.
Paper becomes my river,
and ink, the current that carries me.
Where silence breaks,
my soul speaks.
This is more than poetry,
it is confession,
it is healing,
it is me.
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