Behind the curve of a painted grin,

Lies a storm I carry deep within.

A stage set bright, where I play my part,

While shadows whisper in my heart.

Threads unravel, yet I weave,

A fabric of strength they won’t perceive.

For eyes that watch, I bear the sun,

But in the night, I come undone.

A thousand tasks, a mountain high,

No space to pause, no tears to cry.

I am the lighthouse in their storm,

Holding firm, though barely warm.

Love once bloomed, but petals fell,

And silence wrote what words can’t tell.

I gave, I tried, I lost, I stayed,

Yet they moved on while I delayed.

In battles fought that none can see,

I wonder—what’s left of me?

Still, I rise with every dawn,

Though pieces of me feel withdrawn.

Not for applause, not for their eyes,

But for the quiet where courage lies.

A phoenix bound by unseen chains,

Yet fire flickers through the pain.

This burden, heavy as the night,

Still carries sparks of inner light.

I’ll bend, not break; I’ll mend, not fall,

And in the end, I’ll own it all.

This was written by our contributing writer, Atia Sanjida.