The Ink That Trembled

He held the pen like it could break,

as if words were fragile things

that might disappear if pressed too hard.

He had so much to say—

but silence had always been easier.

Lines formed slowly, uncertain,

like footsteps in a place he had never walked before.

Each word felt like a risk,

each sentence a quiet confession.

He paused often,

not because he was done—

but because he was afraid of what would come next.

Still… he continued.

Because somewhere deep inside,

he knew this truth:

Not writing hurts more

than writing imperfectly.