"Some days, creativity doesn't arrive like a lightning strike. It slips in quietly between sips of tea and the hum of the ceiling fan."
A poem for the bookshelf I keep in my mind.
stacked with stories I never wrote
half-finished poems,
fantasy daydreams,
letters to people I’ve only met in sleep.
The top shelf holds the classics:
childhood joys bound in soft covers,
love stories with spines cracked wide open,
pages that still smell like summer rain.
Middle shelves are a mess
journal entries scribbled in ink when I cried,
quotes underlined in books I never finished,
memories folded like bookmarks between chapters.
And the bottom shelf?
That’s where I keep the unfinished endings.
The “what ifs,” the “not yet,”
the sentences that trailed off
because I was too afraid to finish them.
Some days, I dust it.
Other days, I just sit with it.
Because every soul is part of a library,
and the most beautiful stories
are the ones still being written.


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