There’s a frog in my throat,
a stone lodged in silence—
it croaks at the edges of words
I cannot speak.
The weight of it presses
like wet wool on my chest,
a gray hush that smothers
every spark before it can ignite.
Yet my fingers itch for colors,
my veins buzz with lines unsaid.
Canvas calls me like an open wound,
paper like a confessional—
and even as the fog presses down,
I bleed shapes and shadows,
whispers and screams,
from the cracks depression leaves behind.
Art becomes the mouth I cannot open,
the lungs that exhale when I am breathless.
The heaviness may drown my tongue,
but it cannot drown the ink.
Every brushstroke, every syllable
is both an anchor and a wing—
reminding me I am tethered,
reminding me I can still rise.
The frog may sit stubborn in my throat,
but my hands, my heart, my vision
sing louder than it ever could.
Through the ache,
I create.
Through the silence,
I roar.
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