Writers 
We keep them locked in quiet rooms,
Where sunbeams never learn to tread,
The heavy thoughts, the silent dooms,
The unspoken words we leave unsaid.
They linger close against the wall,
Disguised as dust, disguised as air,
We watch their long, familiar fall,
And pretend we do not see them there.
But tonight we pull the curtains back,
And let the trembling whispers rise,
To trace the shapes along the track,
And look the shadows in the eyes.
We give them breath, we give them form,
No longer bound in secret night,
And though they start a quiet storm,
We watch them dissolve into the light.
For every weight we chose to share,
A dozen more remain behind,
Suspended in the heavy air,
The secret corners of the mind.
We cannot name them all at once,
Nor heal every hidden scar,
Sometimes it takes a season's months
To find where the truest answers are.
So let the rest stay quiet still,
Untill the spirit learns to bend,
There is a time for every hill,
And healing is a steady friend.
We write down what we cannot bear,
By flickering light of candle flame,
And watch the ghosts dissolve in air,
No longer needing face or name.
The heavy room grows calm at last,
The window shows a quiet gray,
As pieces of the shadowed past
Begin to slowly drift away.
And when the final page is turned,
The ink dries dark against the sheet,
The quiet lessons we have learned
Are resting safe beneath our feet.
There is a peace in letting go,
In building bridges through the dark,
And watching every secret grow
Into a small and steady spark.
So we close the book upon the night,
And step beyond the heavy door,
No longer hiding from the light,
The shadows weigh on us no more.
How does it feel to let even just a little bit of that weight go today?
