They Told Me to Dream Small
They told me
dreams were for people
born beneath softer skies,
for those whose pockets
never echoed when they walked.
So I folded my hopes quietly,
hid them beneath my tongue,
smiled at the world
like I had already surrendered.
But nights are dangerous things.
They whisper.
And every midnight,
when the city dimmed its noise,
my soul would sit beside me and ask:
“What if you are meant for more?”
What if the struggle
is not proof you are losing,
but proof you are climbing?
Because mountains don’t appear
beneath comfortable feet.
I have seen flowers
push through concrete.
I have seen candles
survive storms.
I have seen people
with trembling hands
still build beautiful lives.
So no—
I will not shrink myself
to fit inside fear.
I will become
every impossible thing
they said I couldn’t be.
And if I fall,
let it be known:
I fell while reaching
for the sun.
They told me
dreams were for people
born beneath softer skies,
for those whose pockets
never echoed when they walked.
So I folded my hopes quietly,
hid them beneath my tongue,
smiled at the world
like I had already surrendered.
But nights are dangerous things.
They whisper.
And every midnight,
when the city dimmed its noise,
my soul would sit beside me and ask:
“What if you are meant for more?”
What if the struggle
is not proof you are losing,
but proof you are climbing?
Because mountains don’t appear
beneath comfortable feet.
I have seen flowers
push through concrete.
I have seen candles
survive storms.
I have seen people
with trembling hands
still build beautiful lives.
So no—
I will not shrink myself
to fit inside fear.
I will become
every impossible thing
they said I couldn’t be.
And if I fall,
let it be known:
I fell while reaching
for the sun.
