Language of damage by Moonpreet

Welcome to a library with books in unknown language.
Language, bearing infinite looks and more cuts than bandage.
Bandage, instead of stopping blood, worked as a drainage.
Drainage, worsening, demanding to manage.Indeed, a damage.
Damage, stitched in spines too weary to hold.
Hold, but never read — these pages feel cold.
Cold, wasn't I,but thats what they told.
Told, be mature, the more you grew old.
Old, written in ink made of trembling breath.
Breath, that paused often, flirting with death.
Death, was the only earned wealth.
Wealth, never papers, just silence with depth 

Writing under a pen name, Moonpreet is a poet of contradictions — fragile yet fierce, raw yet lyrical. Her work is shaped by the questions she cannot silence: about damage, about womanhood, about death and the strange beauty of living. She writes not to escape life, but to feel it more deeply.