He sits in a warm, gold-washed room, dark glasses hiding his eyes—
not for style, but to shield the weight he carries inside.
His shirt hangs loose, books piled around him like tired guards,
while he tries to map the human heart and all its quiet fractures.
People call him the author of pain, not out of insult,
but because he names the storms everyone else pretends aren’t there.
He dips his pen into the darker shades of feeling—
the anxious grey, the heavy silence—
and writes the words so many have never managed to say.
For the boy who barely speaks,
for the girl who hasn’t slept in days,
for the mind that spins with worry
and the sadness buried out of sight—
he builds a small refuge made of paper and words,
a place where the weight feels lighter for a moment.
Readers find him everywhere—cities, villages, distant coasts—
turning pages just to feel less alone,
to see their shadows reflected honestly.
He reminds them that brokenness isn’t a flaw we hide,
but a thread we all share in one way or another.
Behind those dark glasses, does he cry for all he’s learned?
Does he carry the thorns so he can hand out the rose?
He spills himself into every line,
turning hurt into something strangely beautiful—
the author who takes our pain and helps us breathe again.
The “author of pain”—not because he creates it,
but because he helps us survive it.
Author Of Pain Real Poetry 