How poetry gave me voice

There was a time when silence wrapped itself around me like a second skin, a time when the words I needed most were stuck somewhere deep inside, unable to find their way out. I felt trapped inside my own skin and felt like I needed to let it out. Life felt like a puzzle I couldn’t solve, a maze where I wandered aimlessly, seeking clarity and connection. I would be numb and homesick for something I didn't know. I couldn't win my silent battles. I cried it out until my mind would stop working. Amidst all the regrets, pains, sufferings and abuse that I endured, poetry found me.

Or perhaps, I found poetry—in the midst of that silence, in the cracks of my soul where light was trying to seep through but couldn't get in.

I remember the first poem I wrote. It wasn’t beautiful; it wasn’t profound. It was raw and clumsy, but it was mine. it was messed up and unprofessional. I found it ugly but it was me. The words spilled out like a dam had burst, messy but honest. For the first time, I wasn’t worried about being judged or misunderstood. Poetry didn’t ask me to be perfect. It asked me to be truthful. And that truth, no matter how fractured, was enough. I felt understood, among those messed and ugly words.

In those early days, I wrote about everything I couldn’t say aloud, whatever hurt me, whatever ripped me apart. The heartbreak I had no words for, the self-doubt that loomed like a shadow, the small joys I was too shy to celebrate, the love I wanted. Poetry became my confidant, my sanctuary. Each verse was a conversation with myself, a way to untangle the emotions that often overwhelmed me. A solution and a reminder that I didn't have to end my life in order to comfort myself. It was as though I had discovered a secret language, one that allowed me to translate my pain, my hopes, my fears into something tangible. No one ever had to know that.

What amazed me most was how universal yet deeply personal poetry could be. When I read the works of others, I saw pieces of myself reflected back. Sylvia Plath’s vulnerability, Rumi’s longing, Emily Dickinson’s quiet strength, Franz Kafka's letters to his father—their words reminded me that I wasn’t alone. They were suffering with me and somehow my life was bearable. These poets had faced their own storms, and their verses were proof that beauty could emerge from even the darkest places.

Slowly, I began to share my own poems. At first, it was terrifying. I felt like I was handing over fragments of my heart, exposing parts of myself I had always kept hidden. I felt exposed and harmed, afraid that I would surely be laughed at. But something incredible happened. People listened. They saw themselves in my words, just as I had seen myself in the words of others. Things like these happened to people and they saw themselves in my poems and words. My voice, which had once felt so small and insignificant, was resonating with others. It was like discovering that my whispers had the power to echo and to heal.

Through poetry, I found a way to navigate life’s complexities. It taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness; it’s courage. It showed me that emotions, even the messy and painful ones, are worth exploring. It was not embarrassing to write messed up poetries. And it reminded me that there is beauty in imperfection, in the jagged edges of our experiences. We all are beautiful in our breakdowns too

Poetry is still my refuge, my mirror, and my safe place, a world of my own where I won't be judged. It’s where I go to make sense of the chaos, to validate my feelings and to celebrate the quiet moments of tears. It gave me a voice when I felt voiceless, and in doing so, it gave me back to myself.