Creative Writing: Self-Written Poetry

I find solace in graveyards at night.

There’s a sacred stillness in lying alone beneath a sky cloaked in stars,

where a thousand silent corpses sleep beneath the soil,

And only my lungs dare disturb the hush of death.

The air is cold — but only to me.

I am the sole witness to the wind’s whisper,

the last remnant of breath in a realm where breath has long abandoned its hosts.

Here, it feels as if the world has ended —

not with a bang, but with a gentle exhale at the graveyard’s gate.

Stone after stone —

etched names, forgotten faces,

stories once vibrant now surrendered to decay.

Yet their silence screams louder than any living voice.

The past rests loudly beneath me,

and I lie atop it, skin brushing earth, heart against history.

Above me, the moon hangs in quiet indifference.

Stars shimmer as if to remind me — you are alive.

What a rare, strange miracle it is — to still feel,

to still hurt,

to still be.

But then — why does it ache to breathe?

Why do my lungs clench,

as if unseen hands wrap tighter each time I draw air?

Hands that hesitate,

not out of mercy, but from fear of consequence —

a killer too conscious to commit.

So I ask — who holds my throat?

Whose grip denies me peace?

Could it be… me?

Have I always been both prisoner and jailer,

victim and executioner,

the one pleading for mercy

and the one refusing to give it?