In the silence between heartbeats, my pen finds its voice,
Carving wounds into words, as if I had a choice.
Every letter bleeds truth I dare not speak aloud,
Each sentence a scream beneath the calmest cloud.

Writing isn't a hobby-it's survival, it's war,
It's the art of burying pain and calling it lore.
And when the world turns its face away from my cry,
I write... because paper never asks me why.