I thought 156 would be my final verse,
Yet here I am, penning 157.
I'm not sure if this is a blessing…
or a burden I've yet to understand.
Maybe it's hope in disguise—or just a ghost,
A whisper that lingers when I need silence most.
They said, "If you're still writing, you're still alive,"
But what if it's the ink that keeps me confined?
Each word another thread in my invisible cage,
Each line a scar I etch across the page.
I wanted to be done, to rest, to be free—
But my hand still moves, almost instinctively.
And maybe… that's all that's left of me.