Prompt:Write a poem in which one line repeats — but its meaning changes each time. Line Count:40 Word Count:161
I'm a writer
pen clenched like a sword,
slicing silence into syllables,
each word a battle cry
for a truth I can't quite name.
I'm a writer
lost in coffee rings and crumpled drafts,
where plot twists spill like red wine,
and the characters argue louder than I do
at 3 a.m.
I'm a writer
a liar with rhythm,
weaving hearts from ink and air,
making readers bleed for phantoms
that never lived; except on my page.
I'm a writer
a thief of glances and overheard sighs,
stealing stories from park benches,
train stations,
and strangers who don't know
they’re about to be immortal.
I'm a writer
more haunted than haunting,
with ghosts who edit my sentences,
whispering what I should have said
instead of what I dared.
I'm a writer
not because I know the ending,
but because I’m brave enough to begin
without one.
I'm a writer
until the day my silence
says more
than any stanza ever could.
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