I woke up today — everything felt the same. No, wait, maybe a little
different. I woke up today; different than I was yesterday. Tea in my
cup; I should be warm inside. The sky is clear, the air is kind; so why
does my smile still hide? For a child once aimed a slingshot at a bird
to feel the power of flight, by ending it. Somewhere between that
innocence and intent, my joy was caught mid-air — a fragile thing
that forgot how to land.
Now my smile fits in a framed exhibit, a masterpiece that only exists
when seen, felt. I sprinkle specks of luck like salt over the shoulder of
the horizon —the sun can rise as high as it pleases, but even on those
days, I’m still beneath where it began.
Urgency — no matter how twisted; it keeps me chewing on the taste
of worth. The pop of gums, the rub of rusty coins against my eyes
to imagine change — _literal, spiritual_, any kind will do. While the
struggle stays the same; we all buy into hope with whatever small
change we have left. And though I want to cry, to rage, to scream,
I know it won’t rewrite the day.
So I swallow the silence, tie it to my soul with the morning,
and push through — one more day, one more try at different.
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 6:16 PM UTC
I woke up today — everything felt the same. No, wait, maybe a little
different. I woke up today; different than I was yesterday. Tea in my
cup; I should be warm inside. The sky is clear, the air is kind; so why
does my smile still hide? For a child once aimed a slingshot at a bird
to feel the power of flight, by ending it. Somewhere between that
innocence and intent, my joy was caught mid-air — a fragile thing
that forgot how to land.
Now my smile fits in a framed exhibit, a masterpiece that only exists
when seen, felt. I sprinkle specks of luck like salt over the shoulder of
the horizon —the sun can rise as high as it pleases, but even on those
days, I’m still beneath where it began.
Urgency — no matter how twisted; it keeps me chewing on the taste
of worth. The pop of gums, the rub of rusty coins against my eyes
to imagine change — _literal, spiritual_, any kind will do. While the
struggle stays the same; we all buy into hope with whatever small
change we have left. And though I want to cry, to rage, to scream,
I know it won’t rewrite the day.
So I swallow the silence, tie it to my soul with the morning,
and push through — one more day, one more try at different.
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