Poem: The Map Back to Myself

The map back to myself is worn and torn,
Edges frayed by days I’ve scorned.
It’s filled with paths I dared not tread,
And roads I left unwalked, instead.

There are places marked with faded ink,
Where I once stood, too scared to think.
Stumbling, I strayed from my own name,
Lost in the echo of others’ flame.

But now I am searching, with steady hand,
For the signs that lead me to dry land.
Each line, each curve, a soft reminder,
Of strength in silence, and grace, much kinder.

Through valleys deep and mountains high,
I trace the paths where dreams can die.
Yet, even in those darkest places,
I find the whispers of my own embraces.

The map is old, its journey long,
But with each step, I grow more strong.
I learn the way, the twists, the bends,
And how to love the roads that end.

For every lost turn, I find a truth,
A piece of me, restored, uncouth.
The map back to myself unfolds,
A story of the heart it holds.

And when I reach the final place,
I’ll see my soul, in quiet grace.
For the map was never far away—
It lived inside me, every day.