I’m thirty now, and words still bloom
like flowers lighting every room
My notebook sits beside my bed
To capture thoughts, dreams, and threads

Poetry grows from many things
the happy, the sad, the heart that sings
From all of life and daily battles
My words, my sabre, hear them rattle

I write because some feelings stay
Too deep for speech, too bright for day
Each verse becomes a door, a key
A way to show the hidden me