i am a hundred people at once,
a poet, a painter, a dreamer—
and i can’t remember which one of them is mine.
each morning,
i wake up with a new ambition,
a new hope to be something different.
but by the time the sun sets,
i’ve forgotten what i wanted to be,
because there’s always something more
pulling me in a thousand directions.

there’s a quiet ache in me,
the kind that grows when you’re stretched too thin,
when you try to carry the weight of every dream
and realize that some of them
were never meant to be yours.
but i hold them anyway,
like they’re treasures,
even if they’re breaking me.

sometimes i think i could have been someone else—
someone who picked just one thing
and gave it everything.
but i wasn’t made for one life,
not when the world is full of possibilities
that i can never touch all at once.
so i chase them,
each dream pulling me away from the next,
and i never seem to get any closer to the person
i was supposed to be.

there’s a heaviness in my chest
that nothing seems to ease—
not the quiet mornings spent chasing words,
not the restless nights when i try to paint my soul
into something tangible.
i want to be everything,
but i am nothing,
or maybe i’m too much—
too much for this one life,
too much for the hands i have to hold them all.

i wonder,
if i let go of the ones i love the most,
will it break me?
or will i finally breathe?
because maybe,
just maybe,
i was never meant to be everything—
and that is the hardest thing to admit.