poets are the quiet architects
of rooms built inside our ribs
their pen a delicate chisel shaping
the weight we carry into words
poems are bridges made of breath
spanning the distance between us
they hold the ache tenderly like
a mother holds her sleeping child
a poet’s voice is not their own
it is the raw echo within you
speaking the secrets you’ve buried
beneath years of quiet silences
poems exist so we do not forget
that to feel is to be alive again
and in their rhythm we find refuge
a home within ourselves—at last