Where My Words Went Unheard

I wrote with the ink of pain, not fame,

But no applause ever whispered my name.

A quiet corner, a weary screen,

Dreams danced, but stayed unseen.

Day and night, I carved my soul,

But numbers laughed at every goal.

They said, “Just write, your time will come,”

Yet silence beat the loudest drum.

Every view felt like a mercy,

Every heart that clicked—rare courtesy.

In pages lost in digital air,

I searched for proof that someone cared.

I saw their names in glowing lights,

Poems rising like northern nights.

But mine? A flicker, barely there,

A whisper no one stopped to hear.

No “Top Story” badge to claim,

Just effort buried under shame.

Not envy—just ache, just plea,

A question echoing endlessly:

What did I lack that they could see?

My rhymes bled truth, my lines held scars,

Still unread beneath the stars.

A poet’s voice, a quiet fight,

Carving meaning out of night.

One month, four weeks, near thirty days,

I watched my soul earn quiet praise.

436 reads — that was the peak,

For the pain I dared to speak.

I don’t crave fame, nor wish to boast,

But is a little light too much to hope?

They say numbers don’t define your worth,

But numbers crush where dreams take birth.

If words could cry, mine surely did,

Tears between each comma hid.

Each line I wrote was a wound exposed,

Still, doors to love stayed tightly closed.

I whispered metaphors to deafened rooms,

Wrote verses wrapped in quiet gloom.

And still I wrote—what else could I do?

Even if the world never said “thank you.”

I made my art, I stitched my soul,

In poetry, I tried to feel whole.

But silence grew where cheers should be,

And doubt began to bury me.

I questioned all—my rhyme, my tone,

My worth, my voice, my thoughts alone.

Yet here I stand, still bleeding ink,

Still hoping someone stops to think.

Do my verses not shine bright enough?

Are my truths too sharp, my voice too tough?

Or am I just unseen by fate,

Left knocking on a locked gate?

No mentor came, no hand was lent,

Just long nights and time well spent.

I gave my best, my bleeding part,

But silence was the only heart.

Still, if someday someone reads this page,

And feels seen despite their cage,

Then every unread line will glow—

A candle lit in quiet woe.

Because I write not for reward or name,

But to turn my ashes into flame.

So here I leave my softest cry,

To echo once before it dies.

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