Writers 
I always wanted the kind of peace that doesn't ask permission,
a stillness that doesn't wait for storms to pass first,
a home that isn't a place but a feeling, a decision,
a thirst that finally forgets what it means to thirst.
I always wanted love without the fear of losing,
arms that stay open even when the season turns cold,
a heart that isn't tired from constantly choosing
between holding on tightly and learning to let go.
I always wanted mornings that don't carry yesterday's weight,
a sun that rises kind, not just another obligation,
a life that doesn't feel like it's always running late,
chasing something with no name, no shape, no destination.
I always wanted to be seen without needing to explain,
understood in silence, in the pauses between my words,
to let my joy be simple, and let go of the pain
that convinced me healing must always hurt like swords.
I always wanted more — not riches, not applause,
just enough gentleness to make the hard days softer,
freedom from the endless, invisible because,
the strength to build my peace, brick by brick, chapter by chapter.
And maybe wanting is not weakness, maybe it's the proof
that somewhere deep inside, hope refused to die,
that despite every closed door, every crumbling roof,
I still reach for tomorrow with hopeful, open eyes.
So here's to what I always wanted — still wanting, still true,
still becoming, still learning, still reaching, breaking through.