Pomes tell a story that have a meaning

even if it doesn’t always seem that way.
Sometimes it just feels like putting words on paper,
letting what you've held inside
spill out.

I know I’m not a poet.
I don’t have the right rhythm,
or fancy words,
or rules memorized.
But I write anyway.

Because maybe,
just maybe,
someday it’ll reach someone
someone who needed it,
even if I didn’t know they did.

Pomes are like a shortcut to the heart.
They’re small, but they carry weight.
They don’t need chapters
or long explanations.
Just truth. Just feeling.

Even if they’re messy.
Even if they don’t rhyme.
Even if they’re quiet.

They matter.
Because they’re real.
Because they come from something
I couldn’t say out loud
but found a way to let out.

And maybe
that’s all a poem really has to be.