The Voices of the Silent Pens

The Voices of the Silent Pens

In quiet rooms where ideas grow,
Where moonlit thoughts begin to flow,
A poet sits with ink-stained dreams,
Carving truth in gentle streams.

No crowds, no noise, no heated talk,
Just silent minds that choose to walk
Through fields of words, through seas of rhyme,
Not begging praise, nor chasing time.

The paper waits, a patient friend,
For stories hearts cannot pretend.
The pen, a tool both sharp and kind,
Reveals the colors of the mind.

It shapes the storms we cannot speak,
It holds the courage of the weak.
It paints the laughter we forgot,
It guards the feelings others fought.

Sometimes a poet hides his tears,
Yet writes a hope that conquers fears.
Sometimes he stands behind the line,
But lets his poetry brightly shine.

These voices build a quiet home,
Where truth and honesty can roam,
Where lies dissolve like melted snow,
And wisdom lights a humble glow.

So let the poets write their days,
With honest words and gentle ways.
For every verse, both strong and small,
May change one heart—and that is all.

Not every poet seeks acclaim,
Not every writer wants a name,
But every line they choose to send
Reminds the world—a soul is friend.