I write in the spaces between breaths, in the moments when the world
becomes too much and too little all at once. These words are not meant
to comfort or inspire—they are simply what remains when everything else
has been stripped away.
Each poem is a fragment of a larger silence, a small attempt to give
shape to the formless void that exists within and without. They are
written in the dead hours, when sleep refuses to come and the mind
turns inward to examine its own decay.
I do not write for you. I write because I must. Because the alternative
is to let these thoughts fester in the dark corners of memory,
unacknowledged and unexpressed. This is not a confession or a plea—
it is simply what is.
— Anonymous