In dim-lit rooms where echoes stay,
A writer toils till break of day.
With weary hands and burdened mind,
They search for words—some lost, some kind.
Ink spills dreams upon the page,
Locked inside a paper cage.
Thoughts unspoken, hopes untamed,
Yet none may ever know their name.
They build up worlds with fragile ink,
Where strangers smile and lovers sink.
Each tale a fire, bright but brief,
Burning silent in their grief.
The nights are long, the days are blurred,
Chasing whispers, birthing words.
No silver trophies line their walls,
No cheering crowds, no echoed calls.
Still, in the hush before the dawn,
They find a reason to go on.
Not for the praise, not for the prize,
But for the truth in their own eyes.
Their quill may shake, their faith may wane,
Yet passion lingers in the pain.
For stories, once released to air,
Are never lost—they’re always there.
So let them write through joy and ache,
Through silent dawns and nights awake.
Though unseen, unknown they be,
Their words will outlive you and me.
For a writer who writes, through thick and thin,
With fire beneath their paper skin.
And even when the world forgets,
Their ink still breathes—without regrets.

.    .    .