Poetry is a gift I tend to everyday like a flame,
A quiet force, subtle in its arrival,
Unseen, yet felt in the space between thoughts.
I nurture it with my breath, with the silence of the early morning,
Where the world still hums beneath layers of sleep.

I watch it flicker, pulse, and grow,
Soft against the weight of a world that moves too fast,
It trembles on the edge of understanding,
And I let it,
Knowing that its power lies in its mystery.
There are no rules here,
No guide to follow,
Just the steady rhythm of the heart,
The blood that pours stories onto the page,
The ink a reflection of the soul’s deepest ache.

Each word, an offering,
A piece of me I let go,
Not for approval,
But because it has to be released,
A river that must flow to keep its course.
Some days, it is a torrent,
Crashing with emotion,
Pouring out of me without a second thought.
Other days, it is a mere trickle,
A soft murmur that barely breaks the surface,
But still I trust it,
For even...