Born with nothing in my hand,
I stumbled upon this place,
Now I hold what silence sends—
A loaded gun, a pen that bends.

Love songs echo, cold and done,
No battles left that I have won.
The ground beneath me slips and slides,
I dream of stars where silence hides.

Why must each tale end with me?
Why not begin where I could be?
This mask still clings—it will not fall,
But I can't ****.
I hear the call.

I hear it speak in quiet halls,
A voice that echoes off the walls.
It tells me, write, or lose it all—
The pain, the love, the rise, the fall.

These pages show the things I hide,
The tears I've wiped, the times I've lied.
The gun is cold, it stays with me,
A shadow of who I could be.

They say the stars are born in fire—
But I was shaped by lost desire.
Not joy, not hate, not something grand—
Just silence I don’t understand.

So still I write, though none may read,
With heavy hands and quiet need.
This mask I wear, this war I fight—
This is my truth.
This is my night.