Words meet me right where I am.
Not where I pretend to be.
Not where I wish I was.
But here,
in the quiet mess of now.
Some days they come gentle,
like water finding cracks in stone.
Other days they come heavy,
like truth
I can’t outrun.
And I don’t need them
to be perfect.
I just need them to be honest,
and to sit with me
without asking me to change
before the ink dries.
Because even when I don’t have answers,
even when I don’t feel whole,
the words still come.
And somehow
they understand me
better than I understand myself.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
Words meet me right where I am.
Not where I pretend to be.
Not where I wish I was.
But here,
in the quiet mess of now.
Some days they come gentle,
like water finding cracks in stone.
Other days they come heavy,
like truth
I can’t outrun.
And I don’t need them
to be perfect.
I just need them to be honest,
and to sit with me
without asking me to change
before the ink dries.
Because even when I don’t have answers,
even when I don’t feel whole,
the words still come.
And somehow
they understand me
better than I understand myself.
Sometimes writing feels less like creating and more like surviving honestly for a moment. These words came from realizing poetry has always met me exactly where I am, even when I didn’t fully understand myself yet.
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