Lyric Haven

Introduction:  Sometimes, we wait for someone to save us—from pain, from fear, from the heaviness that pulls us under. But this poem is about a deeper truth: that the hand we wait for might not come from outside. That in our darkest hour, healing often begins when we choose to rise—when we become the hand we were waiting for.   He wakes with salt caught in his throat On the seabed near a broken boat. Amidst the dark, he barely sees— His face is streaked with silent pleas. He tries to move, but all in vain, His limbs held fast by chains of pain. He thrashes hard to free his frame, Still clutching guilt he cannot name. He pleads, he cries, he shouts and yelps, Hoping someone, somewhere helps. But he’s too deep beneath the sun, Where light can’t reach—not even one. His mind unravels, he's a mess, Still tangled in unspoken stress. Ensnared again by shadows' chain, Though every breath resists the pain. The fear returns—it always stays. But this time, he will face the maze. His eyes...