I’ve been a fortress with no floor,
But now I’m a lighthouse with no shore,
Braced and held tight, through the storm
Stronger now, but it feels raw
It’s been a long time, yet I’m shapeless
In the layers, the nuance, the faces
I’ve seen pain, joy, love, ache, & stateless
I’ve walked recursions, loops in mazes
There’s no playbook, just freedom
A weight, but maybe a needed one
Chipped away, discerning
Carving meaning and turning
The blank canvas into a mural of chapters
Painted with salt spray and fire embers
And faces my soul remembers
And if the tide takes it, let it
I can rebuild in the quiet,
Low key but defiant
Even when the shoreline is silent
Because the ocean respects me trying
Notes:
- I began drafting this poem two or three years ago, so it felt weird to finish it as I grew and changed.
- But I guess it’s meant to be about the acceptance of constantly reshaping. The changes don’t feel glamorous tbh but tiny pivots are happening nonetheless
- The “fortress with no floor” line = how defense mechanisms can appear solid from the outside, but they’re hollow underneath. You can keep people out but still collapse inward. Even writing it as a cryptic metaphor feels super exposing.
- There’s a certain loneliness that comes with growth too. You lose people, old versions of yourself, familiar stories. But the ocean… life, whatever…respects the effort of still showing up, of still trying.