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Poem

On some days, I am the pencil, drawing with uncertain steps hopes on sheets of paper,
My hand trembles, but leaves traces of dreams still daring to take shape,
Other days, I am the eraser, erasing with such force that holes remain like memories,
The paper tears under the burden of my attempts to make everything disappear, to forget.
There are locked doors on days when fatigue envelops me like a dense fog,
Too tired to open them, too tired to explain, to search for words,
I am a dusty book that hurried footsteps ignore on the shelves of memory,
But that doesn’t mean my silence doesn’t hide stories ready to be told.
And yet, every morning, I rise from the ashes of unfulfilled dreams,
Not for glory, not for applause, but because giving up has never been my friend,
No one applauds the trees that face winter with bare branches and courageous souls,
But they stand tall, and that has a deep meaning, a form of silent resistance.
Perhaps life was never about conquests, but about simple presence,
About finding beauty in cracked walls, in forgotten coffee cups,
In lonely mornings that no longer hurt as they once did,
Perhaps it’s not about becoming someone the world embraces with open arms,
But about becoming someone with whom you can sit in silence and feel you’ve come home,
To be your own refuge, your own island of peace and acceptance,
To be that place you can always return to, without fear, without regrets,
And to call yourself, finally, home.

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