He used to write poems no one ever saw.
Not because they weren’t good.
But because they felt… too honest.
Each line carried something he couldn’t say out loud.
A memory.
A regret.
A feeling that didn’t know where to go.
He filled pages quietly, late at night, when the world stopped asking questions.
“Maybe one day,” he would whisper, closing the notebook.
But one day kept moving further away.
Until one evening, someone found his words.
She didn’t laugh.
Didn’t question.
Didn’t even speak at first.
She just read.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And then she looked at him and said:
“These aren’t just poems…”
“They’re pieces of you.”
For a moment, he felt exposed.
Seen in a way he never allowed before.
But then—
Something softer followed.
Relief.
Because for the first time…
His silence had a voice.
And someone finally listened.
About the Creator
Ibrahim
I'm a creative writer in the way that I write. I hold the pen in this unique and creative way you've never seen
Comments (2)
Beautiful poem
Well, I just read it! Great work.