The Weight I Bear

By: Isolde Nieves

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Some days the sky feels made of stone,
and every step cuts to the bone,
a thousand voices, none of my own,
whisper doubts I dare not name.

I carry hopes like tattered sails,
through bitter winds and howling gales,
chasing dreams on broken trails,
in games I never seem to win.

The night is long, the light is thin,
the walls I built now caged me in,
and all the battles fought within
leave scars unseen by other eyes.

Yet somewhere deep, a flame holds fast,
a stubborn spark against the past —
and though the storm may scream and blast,
I rise again. I rise. I rise.