She writes quietly,
the way the breeze touches the trees—
without asking to be noticed,
yet leaving something behind.
Her pen holds the words
she cannot always say aloud,
the little thoughts she keeps to herself,
and the feelings that live
between her silence.
Some pages speak of her dreams,
some carry pieces of yesterday,
and some are simply filled
with thoughts she never knew
how to put into words.
She doesn't write to make the world listen.
She writes because it feels good
to let her heart breathe on paper.
And maybe that's the beauty of it—
her writing is not just words or ink,
it is a quiet piece of her soul
left gently on every page.
Tedd..
the way the breeze touches the trees—
without asking to be noticed,
yet leaving something behind.
Her pen holds the words
she cannot always say aloud,
the little thoughts she keeps to herself,
and the feelings that live
between her silence.
Some pages speak of her dreams,
some carry pieces of yesterday,
and some are simply filled
with thoughts she never knew
how to put into words.
She doesn't write to make the world listen.
She writes because it feels good
to let her heart breathe on paper.
And maybe that's the beauty of it—
her writing is not just words or ink,
it is a quiet piece of her soul
left gently on every page.
Tedd..
