A pen that’s bled a thousand lines,
yet pages crumble, left behind.
Each thought I shape, each verse I weave,
feels lost before another’s eye can truly see.

Write, they say—write and bleed,
let the ink meet every need.
But what if lines just fall apart?
What if they never reach a heart?

Doubt is heavy, it presses deep,
like restless waves of ink that never cease.
Yet still, I carve, though lost in night,
a whispered truth, a fleeting light.

And maybe no one sees or knows,
no echoes where the silence grows—
but if one soul should pause and stay,
"Then all this weight was worth the fray."

I am like a falcon, caught in a troubled storm,
Wings torn by winds as cold as winter's scorn.
Surrounded by the storm’s wrath and hate,
I fly through thunder, dodging their fate.

But as I soar, something starts to ignite —
Feathers burn in silence, yet loud with might.
Free like the blazing sun I rise,
Flames roaring as my anger cries.

As the light of the sun embraces my wings,
And its heat touches deep within,
I feel like the sun itself — burning bright,
Strong and free from chains of night.

A blaze grows sharp at every turn,
Falcon’s fury begins to burn.
Though they try to chain my fire,
I rise in embers, climbing higher.

Like a phoenix, I am born again,
From ash and flame, breaking the chain.
The falcon I was becomes pure flame,
Stronger now, with no more shame.

Their hate the wind — but I’m the fire,
A stormbird born from all their ire.
No longer broken, no longer small,
I am the blaze that outshines all.