Writers 
I drown in my excuses of tomorrow,
The clocks keep ticking, but I don’t.
My plans and dreams stay untouched, like a buried dream.
I put up a smile on my bed—
but have you wondered what would happen if I get up?
Maybe I might be who I see in my dreams,
but I sit there—dust collecting in my hair.
I slowly realize the impact it has,
but oh… the strength to get up—
where is it?
It lies behind this bed,
locked up by my own hands,
stopping the prowess of changing the world,
leaving me bereft.
It hides in the corners of “later,”
in the silence I keep choosing over change.
Every second asks me to move,
and I answer with stillness.
I am not lazy—I am trapped
in the comfort of almost.
Almost starting. Almost trying.
Almost becoming who I said I’d be.
And the worst part is knowing…
the door was never locked.
I just kept sitting in front of it.
But I sit still,
telling myself tomorrow is another day.
Now will I get up from that bed?
“I will… soon.”
But soon becomes a quiet habit,
and habit becomes a place I live in.
And I wonder—softly, too late—
how many versions of me
never got the chance to begin.