The Weight of Words
Words don’t judge, they just listen,
ink soaking up what I cannot say.
I let them spill, no worries, no fear,
but somehow, they carve deeper every day.
I thought I could hold it all inside,
press down the weight, silence the sound—
but now, every sentence is a knife,
every letter, a wound unbound.
I write to release, to set myself free,
but instead, I feel everything too much.
Pages become prisons, memories replay,
and I flinch at my own touch.
Yes, it helps—sometimes, a little.
But some things aren’t meant to escape.
Some things should stay buried, forgotten,
not rewritten in endless shapes.
And yet, here I am, raw and open,
never enough, always misplaced.
Why do I always end up on the sidelines,
unseen, unloved, erased?
What did I do to deserve this?
Tell me, is kindness a curse?
Or am I just meant to be the poet—
never the love, only the verse?
