Writers 
Silence once slept beneath my tongue,
quiet as dust beneath a chair.
It gathered words I could not carry,
and buried questions beneath my fear.
I watched the world move past my window,
while thoughts knocked against the glass.
Every unsaid truth became a shadow,
following wherever my footsteps passed.
But silence is not an empty room;
it has a heartbeat, it has a name.
It keeps the stories people swallow,
until their whispers catch a flame.
One morning, the quiet broke open.
Not with thunder, not with rage,
but with a trembling voice that finally
stepped beyond its invisible cage.
I spoke for the tears without witnesses,
for dreams pushed into the dark,
for every heart that learned to disappear
while hiding one stubborn spark.
My voice was fragile, yet it traveled.
It crossed the distance fear had made.
It touched the walls surrounding me
and taught my courage not to fade.
Now silence stands beside me,
no longer ruler, no longer chain.
It listens when my heart is hurting,
then helps me turn my pain to change.
When silence learns to scream,
it does not always become loud.
Sometimes it becomes a truth,
spoken clearly before the crowd.
