Last PiecePoem 155

Now I've finally understood,

The weight of writing and not being heard.

It's like you're drowning in an empty sea,

Screaming softly, but no one sees.

Every line I wrote was a quiet cry,

Each word a wound I couldn't hide.

They read the rhythm, not the pain,

Like dancing slowly in the rain.

This is the last piece I'll let bleed—

No more poems they'll never read.

"Perhaps… all the illusions die here."