In poetry and prose, I write,
Each word a thread too tightly spun,
A mind adrift in restless seas,
A race replayed but never won.
A past I shape, revise, distort,
A silence waiting past the din,
Internal voices drown present thought.
And time forgets where I have been.
In words, unraveling complexities.
Unravel truths, then weave anew,
A spiral turned by weary hands,
Each word—a prism shifting through.
Each moment—measured, reexamined,
The worst took root inside my chest,
Thoughts dissolve like mist at dawn,
But the word never comes to rest.
Each page—a mirror held too close,
To shape the storm, to name the fear,
To carve the noise ‘to something true,
To bring the distant voices near.
No weight too great, no fear too sharp,
No thought too lost, no dream too small,
I tried to still the ceaseless churn—
Yet only ink redeems, and names it all.
WoPoLi 
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