The Parchment And The Quill

The Parchment and the Quill

This is no sonnet, no rhyme stitched to impress

just breath held in ink, scratched down without dress

the paper’s not white, not pure, just worn

like skin after years, like edges torn

The quill’s not gold, it’s a feather I found

half broken, dragged through dirt, then bound

to mark what I’d never say aloud,

the names I buried, the grief too proud

Each stroke is a truth I never chose

letters rising like ghosts, rows on rows,

not for eyes, not for praise, just for me.

A reckoning written, a quiet decree.

I don’t write to be read or known

this page is a mirror, not a throne

I spill to survive, not to charm

the quill’s my weapon, the parchment my arm

And if someday someone reads this mess

let them know I wrote to confess

not sins, not shame, but strength in fall.

I tried my best I didn’t fall.