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For What Words Are Worth
I never wanted to be the loudest mind in a quiet room. It just kept happening — truth slipping out like breath, not prophecy... and people watched as if revelation were some secret I was chosen to carry, when really, I’ve just grown tired of pretending the obvious is complicated. There is a strange punishment in clarity: the clearer I speak, the more they insist it must be wisdom. They praise what they cannot imitate — not realizing I never meant to teach, only to meet... and I pay for it in solitude; I do not seek pedestals — as pedestals are prisons disguised as altars.
the truth leaves my mouth
the quiet room now stares back
just lost, not profound
Sometimes I wonder: if someone else finally said what I see so clearly, would I feel relief or wounded, as if deprived of my special individuality? Or would it maybe just feel like peace in the resound — proof that I am not the last of my kind in this quiet world full of loud people who say nothing.
empty lecture hall
my words still echo louder
than the mere applause
There’s a particular kind of loneliness reserved for the ones who think in layers... for those who speak in truths before others manage metaphors. They call it depth, but it feels more like exile. A mind sharpened by solitude learns too early that brilliance is not applause — it’s the ache of standing where no one else stands yet. I wanted company — not a crown.
pedestal is glass
they see the light, not the height
I long for flat ground
On World Poetry Day, they celebrate voices like mine — voices that bleed neat and beautiful on paper. They see the poem, but not the person whispering lines into a void that rarely whispers back. They say poets change the world, but I know the truth: poets survive it. We do not write because we wish to be revered— we write because silence feels like drowning. Some search for fame — I search for reflection. The rare soul who arrives not to admire or follow — but to answer... someone whose silence carries thought, and whose voice arrives not as an emulation, but presence.
late revelations
I write to not disappear,
not to be profound
Poets do not break by screaming; poets break by going quiet. Until then, I keep writing — not for the audience, but for the possibility... and if no one arrives to speak in my cadence, I will not dim my voice... I'm not sure if I even know how. I will build a language they must learn or lose; not chosen — just unwilling to disappear.
the dialogue fades
only sequins and applause
I wait for the thought
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