not a thing

To name yourself is to carve a stone,
to trap the breath inside a word,
a label that sits heavy on the chest,
a sentence, served without a trial.

But verbs — they are the wind,
they slip through fingers,
they become, they unravel,
they move without apology.

You say, I am this, and the world hardens,
you say, I do this, and the world opens wide.
To know too much, to fix yourself in place —
is to sentence the mind to a cell of its own making.

But to drift, to question, to wonder,
is to dance on the edge of what could be,
to escape the bars of certainty,
to be everything, and nothing at all.

So I will write, I will sing, I will breathe —
not as a thing labeled “writer”
but as a wave,
crashing on the shores of possibility,
never knowing where the next tide will take me.