Poetry Of My Soul Poem by Miss Tee

This is not performance.
This is pulse.

Not written to impress
nor to persuade —
but to release
what trembles beneath skin.

These poems are not polished mirrors.
They are cracked glass,
reflecting truth in uneven fragments.

Some pages ache.
Some pages burn.
Some pages whisper so softly
you must lean in to hear them breathe.

I have written in loneliness.
I have written in longing.
I have written when the night
felt too large
and my name too small.

I have written to survive the hour.
To freeze time before it swallowed me whole.
To prove that even in silence,
my spirit was loud.

This is not a story of perfection.
It is a record of endurance.

Of questions without answers.
Of love half-found.
Of fear confronted but not conquered.
Of falling —
and staying.

If you read these words,
read them gently.

They are not just ink.

They are evidence
that I was here —
feeling deeply,
breaking quietly,
becoming slowly.

This is the poetry of my soul.