I am the quiet one in crowded rooms, The soft retreat when loudness blooms, Too shy to speak, too small, too blurred But hand me a pen... and I’ll be heard. When words escape my trembling lips, And courage falters, breaks, then slips, I turn to pages, blank and bare And write the things I cannot dare. I let my thoughts in ink take flight, Say all I swallow late at night, Where voice may stutter, pause, or hide My heart still speaks on paper's side. I’m not the loudest in the fight, But I am armour made of write, A quiet storm, a steady hand, A voice that shakes, but still will stand. So here I am, unseen, unheard, A timid soul, a caged-up word, But line by line, I break the chain And find my freedom through the strain.