Hey, the poet inside me, Why do you always wake When I’m halfway drowning In sorrow’s silent lake? Why do my words find rhythm When I’ve lost all control? Why does my bleeding heart Write rhymes that console? Is this what a poem is— Fresh from the flesh, from my soul? Torn pieces of me, stitched Into verses that feel whole? You never come with laughter. You don’t knock in the light. But in the middle of madness, You scribble through the night. You don’t bring me healing— You just make the pain sing. You turn silence to sirens, Give my heartbreak a wing. So bleed me dry, you phantom— But leave the lines unblurred. If I must be your silence, Then carve me into words.