The walls I feel are made of breath and speech,
Of people standing just within my reach.
A heavy net of "must" and "should" and "why,"
That keeps me tethered while I watch the sky.
But in the quiet spaces of my mind,
I leave the weight of every soul behind.
I shed this skin, these bones, this human name,
And lose the part of me they try to tame.
I want to be the leaf that trusts the air,
With no account to give, and none to care.
I want to be the mountain, cold and still,
Whose only law is wind and winter’s chill.
I’ll be the water slipping through the stone,
Belonging to the path, and yet alone.
I’ll be the cloud, a ghost of silver-white,
Who dissolves into the vastness of the light.
For though they hold my time and hold my place,
They cannot touch this inner, open space.
When the world is loud and I am caught within,
I go where the mountains and the stars begin.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 12:42 AM UTC
I am a poet for one day.
Why is it hard to hold a pen
and brush the mind to see the pain?
it feels heavy—
like air pressing the chest.
I want to feel the gentleness of each line
So I can write every day.
i know
It is only a wave—
It stays for a minute
and then goes away.
Why am i afraid
of this wave disappearing?
Why can’t I hold it,
let it stay?
That’s why
I can't be a poet every day
Dec 23, 2025
Dec 23, 2025 at 1:03 PM UTC