Buried In Stanzas

In the quiet recesses of my being,
where shadows tend to linger,
words shimmy like leaves in autumn,
scattered whilst aching for the breeze.

They move in silence,
tumbling into verses,
each line a whisper,
a secret held close against the chill.

I carve my sorrow in ink,
where the world won't see
the weight of longing on my soul
the echoes of laughter that never feel like home.

But who has time to sift through
the tangled webs of my thoughts?
In bustling lives, with hurried breaths,
my ink runs dry in the forgotten corners of pages.

Would they pause,
take a moment to trace the ink-stained letters,
to unravel the threads of my grief,
or is it easier to cast their gaze away?

My sadness, a silent companion,
remains a ghost in my laughter,
hidden beneath the skin,
a melancolic melody unsung.

If only they would find me,
buried in stanzas,
perhaps they would understand
the weight I carry,
the stories that linger
just out of reach,
a soft refrain in the distance,
waiting to be heard.