Yearning

The hands tremble when the heart 

dares not to say anything.

The eyes confess what the lips can't say.

The voice struggles, remains silent.

Heart races to unrest the soul.

And yet, within this trembling,

there is no escape,

only the endless repetition 

of what cannot be spoken.

The eyes ,the unwelcomed witnesses,

testify a crime they cannot understand.

The voice wrestles itself into submission,

its struggle to a futile revolt.

Heart races as though it might outrun itself,

dragging the weary soul through corridors

that lead nowhere,

Endlessly turning back to the same locked door.

The heart dares not to say anything,

Aware of the absurdity in their gesture,

A futile attempt to express what

the world has already refused to hear.

But why does it matter?

This confession falls into the void,

unanswered, unacknowledged,

like a whisper lost in the indifferent wind.

Heart races to unrest the soul,

but to what end?

This unrest is its own prison,

and yet, I run towards it,

because to stop is to surrender.

There is no resolution,

only the quiet, relentless cycle—

to feel, to fear,

to search for answers

where none exist.

To betray the soul’s anguish,

its desperate yearning to break free,

it tries to break free,

and yet,it cannot.

Ah, here lies the torment

to feel so much,

to tell so much, 

to want so much,

and yet to remain devoured.