The Poet Who Couldn’t Write

The Poet Who Couldn’t Write

There once was a poet, or so he had dreamed,

His words never came, though each day screamed.

His quill lay on the table, his paper stayed white,

A barren expanse in the dead of the night.

Each dawn he would rise with the taste of defeat,

His heart beating rhythm to an incomplete beat.

He’d sit by the window, watch clouds drift away,

A silent observer of life’s passing play.

“Who am I?” he’d whisper to shadows on walls,

“A poet who’s voiceless, who hears no calling at all?”

His hands bore no ink stains, his shelves no acclaim,

His life like a candle without any flame.

The world didn’t notice, the world didn’t care,

For a poet unwritten leaves no mark to compare.

He melted to nothing, a whisper, a sigh,

A nobody fading beneath a blank sky.

But somewhere, unspoken, his verses still stirred,

In the rustle of leaves, in the flight of a bird.

Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps he did write—

In the quiet of silence, his poetry’s light.

He came to the world with nothing to show,

His heart full of longing, his spirit sunk low.

For all of his life, he just wanted to write,

But he left as a nobody, no poetry in sight.

No verses to echo, no words to remain,

Just the weight of his silence, the ache of his pain.

A life spent in shadows, with dreams out of reach,

A poet unspoken, no lessons to teach.

Yet perhaps in the quiet, his truth still revealed,

For some lives leave whispers that ripple the world.