Unnamed

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Poetry dies, whenever I write,

Crying in the corner of an unknown site.

Maybe that’s the only way I lie,

Sobbing in the silence I can’t deny.


Poetry dies, whenever I write,

Yet bleeds through cracks I try to hide.

If this is death, then tell me why

It feels so alive when I let it die.

Comments

Anonymous said…
It’s like the poem fights itself between silence and expression...
27 May 2026 at 02:17
Anonymous said…
❤️🌷
27 May 2026 at 02:18
Anonymous said…
⛄⛄
27 May 2026 at 02:18
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