Inked Healing.

I don’t know what I’m doing,

but I know what I’m feeling.

And that alone is healing.

*

Words spill like light from trembling hands,

Ink that stains, like shifting sands.

Like something too raw to just pretend,

too heavy to carry, too deep to bend.

*

I have seen love in the eyes of another,

felt it in the way hands linger,

in quiet moments, in gentle haze.

Felt it rise in silent space,

in the way a heartbeat finds its place.

*

But WORDS,

words make feelings real.

They shape the ache, they help us heal.

To say it loud, to let it fly,

to give it wings, to let it try.

Words i craft turn to magic. Ferment into grace,

That’s how emotion finds its place.

*

Maybe that’s why writing saved my soul,

And why paper made the broken whole.

I could trace my sorrow, line by line,

turn grief to art, and make it mine.

*

I held my joy, I named my fear,

I poured my pain for all to hear.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just inside…

it lived in ink and it didn’t hide.

*

It was real.

It had a name.

It wasn’t just a hidden flame.

*

To write… is sacred, sharp, and true,

it brings the deepest parts of you

into the light, into the air,

into a space someone might share.

*

Because somewhere out there, someone reads…..

and finds their heart between these creeds.

They whisper, “Yes… I’ve felt this too.”

“These words are mine, they’re pulling through.”

*

And that…

that bond, that thread, that fire,

is the only kind of truth I desire.

*

That is the miracle I treasure most:

Not the rhyme, not the rhythm, not the prose,

But the moment a stranger reads and knows

The moment my heart is still because now it knows…

The darkness and sorrow is not unknown.

*

So even if I don’t have a plan,

I’ll still write with trembling hands.

Because every line, each word I sow,

is proof that feelings helps us grow.

*

And maybe that’s all I’ll ever need—

a pen, a page and a heart that bleeds.