I write my life along the veins of paper.
Ink flows where blood would have gone.
Each line shakes with what remains unsaid.
Each word is a soft act of defiance against the world.
I fold these pages into secret shapes.
Origami memories, untouched by others.
They rest in the corners of my room.
A delicate collection of who I am by myself.
No one reads them, no one touches them.
And perhaps that’s the way they’re meant to stay—
A hidden map I’ve created alone,
A world that exists only for 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.
A Failed Artist, A Disillusioned Poet, An Underpaid Game Show Host
I took my son and niece to Gori, a small town in Georgia where Joseph Stalin was born. They talked me into visiting the Stalin's Museum, the largest in the post-Soviet space. I had resisted going there because I just can't stand the monster and know enough about him, or so I thought.
By Lana V Lynx7 days ago in FYI
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