Still, I write.

Still writing through detours

I thought a plan

would draw a straight road

and I would walk along it

carrying notebooks like a map.

But the road bent sideways.

Bills arrived before inspiration,

morning alarms rang for jobs

that never learned my middle name

or the stories I keep in my chest.

Still, I write.

On the back of receipts at lunch.

In notes on my phone after midnight.

In half-finished drafts

that wait like open hands.

There were years

I confused survival with surrender,

years I worried

that small audiences meant small dreams.

But the words stayed.

They taught me how to listen,

how to turn an ordinary Tuesday

into something that glows a little,

how to forgive the life

that did not match the brochure.

My résumé may not mention my art,

but my quiet does.

My laughter does.

And wherever I clock in,

I carry the sentences

that keep reminding me

I am still becoming

the person I write about.