I write my verses not in ink but tears,
Each line, each metaphor and each rhyme.
I weave them through my silent pain,
Between each stanza through each time.
I am a poet, yet a moth to the flame.
A coward at heart—reckless, my name.
I pray all night, yet I sin all the same.
Madly in love, yet faithless I became.
I hide in shadows, though I aspire to say,
Enclosed within, yet longing to stay.
I want to live, though I feel like dying,
Moving forward, yet I feel like crying.
I yearn, I burn, holding on a secret lie,
Whispering my truth, yet too scared to fly.
I crave the dawn, but I dwell in the night,
My soul feels fragile, yet I long for light.