Writers 
The ocean does not rush to prove its might,
it simply breathes, in tides that fall and rise,
patient with the moon, patient with the light,
patient with the storms it somehow memorizes.
It has swallowed ships and cradled sleeping shores,
held the weight of sailors' unspoken prayers,
opened up its arms to those who came before,
and closed them gently over old despairs.
It remembers every hand that touched its skin,
every child who laughed along its edge,
every heart that came here broken, came here thin,
and left a little lighter, standing on the ledge.
It doesn't ask you why you came, or why you cried,
it doesn't need explanations for your pain,
it simply rolls its waves against the tide,
and washes what it can, again and again.
There's a kind of wisdom in its endless motion,
a lesson tucked inside each cresting wave —
that stillness and power can share one notion,
that gentleness, too, is a way to be brave.
So when your own life feels like shifting sand,
when certainty slips softly through your hand,
remember the ocean, vast and unafraid,
that finds its rhythm even when the winds have swayed.
For like the sea that holds what it has known,
you too can carry weight and still be whole,
you too can bend with storms you didn't choose alone,
and still remain unbroken, still be soul.