I try to avoid clichés, such as the word ‘someday,’ but I can’t deny the hope it carries. It’s beautiful and promising, like the first light of day. Seven simple letters that hold the weight of my dreams.

Someday, I’ll write about cool winds and peaceful rain, about afternoons spent wandering through gardens. I’ll describe the grass beneath my feet, as though it thanks me for walking this earth. I’ll write of vast cities, where new streets hum with life, new places I’ve visited, and those yet to come.

Someday, I will only wait for sunrises and sunsets. I’ll leave the sciences behind in favor of what nourishes the soul. I’ll indulge in simple joys, like flipping through recipe books and learning the art of crafting the perfect soup.

Someday, my writing will shift. It will be less about others and more about me—how I am loved, how I am loved well, and how those I love are lucky to have me. I’ll be hidden, only found by those who seek me in my absence, who know that I’ve always left the door open. At the dining table, I’ll sit with friends who stayed, who made me stay, and who never took me for granted.

Someday, I’ll spend more time analyzing constellations, and less on pondering why relationships fail. I’ll always have the right words to say, no hesitation, no delay. Someday, my writing will be simple and clear, no ironies, no hidden metaphors.
Short, and sweet;
No traces of past pains, or of having dealt with goodbyes.

But someday is still a distant thought. For now, I let the ink bleed a little longer. I let the pen spell words like grief and loss.

I gather words like fallen leaves,
Whispers of time caught in the breeze.
Each syllable a step untaken,
Each phrase a path half-awakened.

What if silence held the key,
To maps of thoughts that long to be?
Not carved in stone but etched in air,
Invisible threads that lead somewhere.

The ink may spill, the lines may blur,
Yet meaning stirs, a quiet murmur.
For in the spaces between the known,
Lies the truth we’ve never shown.

I wrote silence
it made more sense
than anything else
I could think of

write a verse,
write a song,
write it with the chillum of a ****.
write slow, write fast -
write with an ******* while it lasts.
write for the right reasons, and the wrong ones too:
write because it matters to you.
write like a man, write like a woman -
write despite their contempt, unforgiven.
write on the walls,
of the times you recall -
when you felt small,
or when you’d fall.
write your heart out!
write your ***** out! -
and don’t you ever doubt -    
wheather it’ll work out,
or choke your bank account.
write, if not for anything -
for the hope that still lies within;
just write, do not ask why!
if you must know -
write because you’d rather die.

write, my friend -
write.