Writers 
They told me it was over, that I'd used up all my chances,
that the story I was writing had already met its end,
but endings are just doorways in disguise, in new advances,
and I refused to let a closing be the only word I'd send.
I have fallen more than once, I have tasted dust and ashes,
I have watched my plans collapse like buildings made of sand,
I have felt the sting of failure leave its permanent gashes,
but I have also learned to rise, to stand, to understand.
Rising isn't loud. It doesn't come with trumpets blaring,
it comes in quiet mornings where you choose to try again,
it comes in tired hands still reaching, still daring,
it comes in broken hearts that still believe in when.
I am not who I was after every fall I've taken,
I am stronger in the cracks, I am wiser in the scars,
every version of me that the failures tried to shaken
has taught me how to navigate by unfamiliar stars.
So if you're standing now among the ashes of your effort,
if the dream you built feels shattered, feels too far to reclaim,
remember: rising isn't about erasing your desert,
it's about walking through it, and rising just the same.
New beginnings don't require you to forget the past,
they only ask that you keep walking, even slow, even scared,
that you trust the broken pieces were never meant to last,
that you rise again, and again, however you're prepared.
For the sun still rises after every darkest night,
and so will you, and so will I, and so will every soul
who chooses, even trembling, to reach again for the light,
to rise again, to try again, to somehow become whole.