I trace the quiet in my chest.
Where words fall softly, unspoken.
A shadow hums beneath the skin.
A story left unwritten, hidden.
The wind knows things I cannot say.
It carries sighs that drift away.
I gather moments, thread by thread.
And fold them where the night has led.
No eyes will read this hidden verse.
No voice will echo, no one else.
It lives in folds of time, alone.
A garden grown from marrow, alone.
If ever it escapes my grasp,
I hope it breathes without a gasp.
For some things are meant to be.
A secret shared only with me.
About the Creator
Emily
Poem lover, word collector, and believer in the quiet magic of language. I write to remember, to heal, and to find beauty in the spaces between silence and sound. Every poem is a heartbeat — a small proof that feelings can become art.
Getting Serious About Comedy (Part I)
If I were asked to remark on my life and the childhood that paved some road leading me to this point, I would have to say something about all the funny people who surrounded me for the last 26,872 days (and counting). Somewhere along that road, I became a big fan of laughter and the comedy that spawns it – and, I mean not only my own laughter, but the laughter of others, some of which I have actually been responsible for inducing.
By John Oliver Smith7 days ago in Humor
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