Writing

They told me these years would be golden—
Midnight laughs, wild hearts, arms to hold in.
But no one warned of quiet nights,
Of staring at ceilings, dimmed by lights.

I eat in silence, talk to none,
Pretend I'm fine when the day is done.
I scroll past smiles that never fade,
While mine feels borrowed, worn, and frayed.

I try to speak but choke it down,
My voice gets lost beneath the sound
Of people living louder lives—
While I survive in whispered cries.

You carry dreams that feel too far,
You measure worth by where you are.
A paycheck, rent, a sleepless bed—
A heavy heart, an aching head.

The party invites never came,
Your phone stays still—no one to blame.
You fake a laugh, you wear the mask,
You wish someone would just ask.

You’re told you're young, you’ve got the time,
But why does it all feel like a climb?
Why does love feel out of reach,
Like waves that pull you from the beach?

You whisper truths in empty halls,
Then cry alone inside four walls.
And every tear you never shed
Still lives in corners of your bed.

But in this ache, you're not alone—
There are others trying to feel like home.
And maybe someday, you will see:
Your broken parts still carry me.

So here's to hearts that quietly break,
To the lonely souls that lie awake—
You're not forgotten, you're not too much,
And you are worthy—even without touch.