Oh to be awoken by the sun and not an alarm,
To be surrounded not by robotic schedules, but by oceanic calm,
To go to bed without counting the hours of sleep I’d get,
To have the option to watch every single sunset.

Oh to be fuelled into a deep sleep by stories etched on dead trees,
To remember the cause of every single book crease.
Oh to be free from viciously scrolling reels - All day. All night.
To catch a break from our screens and actually enjoy natural light.

To eat when I’m hungry and not just when I have time between classes,
To drink water, to ***, to rest when my body wants to, and not just go along with the
masses.
I want to be what I know I cannot.
And yet, more than anything, I want to BE.

To BE is to read with no pressure.
To BE is to experience true leisure.
To BE is to look at the night sky and have the stars look back at you.
To BE is to fall asleep under that very sky and be awoken by a bird’s coo.

Amidst AI and robots and technology and the swarm of 21st century ‘Super Brains’,
When did we lose control of our own lives’ reins?
In the war for the title of ‘Smartest BEings’,
We simply forgot to BE.

Hello, dear poet,
Come closer now—yes, you, love.
This poem is a cradle,
a soft hum rocking through time,
meant for the child you once were—
the one who clutched wonder with both hands,
who cried quietly behind closed doors,
who dreamt of magic even in the dark.

Shh, it’s okay.
You were always trying your best.
You were never too much, never not enough.
You were a wildflower learning to grow
even in the cracks of concrete.
Your dreams were as big as the sky,
and every fall was just a reason
to rise up stronger, a little more sure
that everything would be okay.

Remember the days
when the world was a puzzle you were eager to solve,
when the corners of your mind were wide open,
and every answer felt just out of reach?
But sweet one,
there was no rush—
time had its own rhythm for you to follow,
and you danced to it
with your tiny, unshakable steps.

When the shadows stretched long and wide,
when fear whispered your name,
and doubt felt like an endless rain—
remember,
it was okay to curl up,
to seek comfort in soft things—
blankets, warm arms,
the lullaby of the wind through the trees,
the quiet hum of someone who loved you.

And now, dear poet,
you’ve grown,
but that child,
the one with the bright eyes and the open heart,
is still with you.
They are the spark behind your every word,
the soft whisper in your chest
that says, ”You’re okay.
You’re safe now.”

Don’t forget them,
the one who believed in stars
and who whispered to the moon when no one was listening.
They are still here,
still breathing,
still dancing in your soul.

So, dear poet,
when the weight of the world feels too heavy,
remember—
you were always held
in ways you never quite understood,
always loved
in ways that made the darkness bearable.

And no matter where you go,
you will never be too far from that safe place—
where everything,
yes, everything,
will be alright.