love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
🌙✨ Your Dream Is Still Waiting for You ✨🌙
There’s a dusty notebook in the back of your drawer. An old sketch you started but never finished. A voice memo you recorded late at night and never played again. That dream? It’s still waiting for you. We talk a lot about chasing dreams, as if it’s something fast. Something loud. But the truth is, most dreams don’t come with fanfare. They sit quietly, waiting for us to remember how badly we once wanted them. Maybe life got in the way. Maybe you took a job that drained you. Maybe someone laughed when you shared your idea. Maybe fear disguised itself as practicality, and you listened. You didn’t quit. You paused. And there’s a difference. --- The Lie We Believe Somewhere along the way, we started believing the lie that if we don’t accomplish something by a certain age, it no longer matters. That dreams expire like milk. That missed time makes you unworthy. But dreams aren’t on a deadline. They don’t care about your age. They don’t care about your resume. They care that you care — still. The world might not clap for you when you return to your passion. But your soul will. And that’s enough. --- No One Tells You That Starting Again Is Brave It’s not glamorous to begin again. You’ll feel awkward. Rusty. Maybe embarrassed. But starting again doesn’t mean starting from scratch — It means starting from experience. You’re wiser now. You’ve failed a little. You’ve felt what life is like without that dream. And maybe that ache is why you’re finally ready. You don’t have to launch a business overnight, publish the novel in a month, or master your craft in one sprint. You just have to start again. Pick up the paintbrush. Reopen the document. Sing the first line. Hit “record.” Write one true sentence. Dreams don’t demand perfection — they crave presence. --- But What If I’m Too Late? Too late for what? Who decided what “on time” looks like? Maya Angelou published her first autobiography at 40. Colonel Sanders franchised KFC at 65. You’re not late. You’re just getting ready. And even if the world doesn’t reward you the way you hoped, that doesn’t mean your dream didn’t matter. You’re not chasing applause — you’re chasing meaning. Fulfillment. Peace. Your dream doesn’t need to go viral. It just needs to come alive again. --- This Is Your Permission Slip To try again. To care again. To want more again. This is your reminder that you don’t need to justify your desire to anyone. You are allowed to start again quietly, in the corner of your room, with no audience, just a whisper in your chest that says: “This still matters to me.” And that whisper? That’s your dream — still waiting. Still yours. Still possible.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Poets
🌱 You’re Allowed to Begin Again
You're allowed to step out of the storm without apologizing for how long you stayed. You're allowed to gather what’s left of you and call it a beginning. No one else needs to understand — this is not their rebirth. You're allowed to wake up today and want more than survival. To crave softness, to want laughter back. To ask the sun to come find you after all this gray. You’re allowed to leave stories unfinished, walk away from rooms that shrink you, burn bridges that led you to burn out. You’re allowed to change your mind without explanation. To say: "I was wrong" and still be worthy. You're allowed to bloom without permission. Even if no one sees it. Even if you’re still learning how. You're allowed to forgive yourself for the time it took to learn. For the breaks. For the doubt. For all the quiet defeats. You’re allowed to begin again. And again. And again. Not because you failed — but because you’ve grown.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Poets
In Her Voice
I remembered my own name for the first time when I heard her sing. It was in the college auditorium—dull lights, soft whispers, a sense of apprehensive expectation. The music recital, an annual event, had just begun, and I, a second-year student of classical vocal music, had taken my seat in the back row. I had come for the music, I had told myself. But when she took the stage, there was nothing else.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
