The Silent Library

Have you ever felt a symphony inside?
A chaotic tune, thoughts unclassified?
A mix of emotions, ideas that collide,
Yet silence holds them, air-tight.

We’re all living novels with pages torn.
Chasing endings that are never reborn.
But we pause, suppress what we’ve worn.
Afraid of the silence, the judgments we scorn.

I’ve stood in front of that endless shelf;
Books about me, but none by myself.
A version crafted by someone else,
A story written not to my soul’s depth.

The pages whisper of who they believe,
A version I didn’t script, I can’t conceive;
Assumptions formed, their minds deceive,
Yet in the margins make me grieve.

There’s an urge to correct, to write anew,
To redefine what they think they knew.
But maybe the mystery holds a clue,
A chance for them to see the real view.

So I’ll leave the stories, let them unfold,
In the whispers, the rumors, the tales retold.
And perhaps one day, they’ll be bold;
To realize the truth, the full story they withhold.