The Dreamer's Pen

There’s a half of me I keep in shadows,
tucked beneath the surface where no one sees.
A quiet hum of longing, a melody unsung,
a bridge that spans the distance between who I am
and who I might have been.

Half of me craves roots,
anchored in the soil of certainty,
nurtured by stability,
while the other half
dreams of flight—
windswept freedom,
the taste of possibility on my tongue.

Half of me whispers truths in the quiet,
the kind I daren’t speak aloud.
They coil around my heart like vines,
beautiful and sharp-edged,
reminders of what I’ve carried,
of what I’ve let go.

There’s a half of me that belongs to others:
to the names I wear,
the roles I hold,
the expectations I meet.
But the other half—
wild, untamed—
it belongs to no one.
Not even me, at times.

Half of me remembers my mother’s voice,
a steady rhythm guiding me home.
And half of me aches for the things
she never got to tell me—
the lessons folded in silence,
the stories left unfinished.

Some days, I live in halves,
balancing between presence and memory,
between dreams and duty.
And yet, in those rare moments—
when the halves converge,
when the light finds the cracks—
I am whole.

Because half of me is always searching,
and half of me knows
the search is what keeps me alive.