What if—for once—I’m the poem, not the poet?

What if my words no longer have to be carefully arranged, sculpted with the precision of a sculptor, chiseled with the delicacy of a painter, each line trying to capture something so fleeting, so intangible, and so deeply personal? What if I, myself, were the very thing being written into existence? What if I were the verse, the rhythm, the silent space between the stanzas, and not the one putting the ink to paper?

For so long, I’ve been the poet. I’ve been the one to tell my story, to craft the narrative, to pull the words together with the same urgency with which a river cuts through rock, carving paths, shaping destinies. I have always been the creator—the one who speaks, who reflects, who captures moments in time and space with ink that stains the paper but never my soul. It’s been my way of existing in the world—of understanding myself, of making sense of the chaos that rattles through me, of shaping my emotions into something that can be consumed and understood by others.

But what if, just for once, I could let go of that burden? What if I could stop trying to control my narrative, my voice, and simply be? What if I allowed myself to be the poem rather than the poet, the one who flows freely, without boundaries or restraint, the one who doesn’t have to understand every single line, every single verse, every single movement within the structure of my being? What if I could just let my soul spill out and become something beautiful, something raw, something without apology?

There is something deeply freeing in the thought of no longer being the creator. There is something wild in releasing the need to explain myself, to justify my feelings, to make sure I’m understood. It’s an idea that terrifies me, and yet, it also calls to me. To be the poem means to be the one who is felt, not analyzed. To be the poem means that I can exist fully, without needing to dissect every feeling, every tear, every whispered thought that brushes through my mind. To be the poem means to be felt rather than understood.

I’ve spent so many years crafting the perfect words, trying to shape my pain into something others can read, digest, and internalize. And while that process has brought me some relief, some understanding, I wonder if I’ve ever allowed myself to simply be the expression of my own pain. Perhaps, all this time, I’ve been too busy trying to give meaning to what doesn’t always have to be explained. Maybe the pain is the meaning itself. Maybe the emotions that come crashing through me, the moments when I feel like I’m breaking apart, don’t need to be written into stories or delivered with profound wisdom. Maybe they just need to be felt, to be lived, to be experienced as raw and unfiltered truth.

The idea of being the poem, rather than the poet, forces me to consider my relationship with vulnerability. What if, instead of hiding behind metaphors and similes, I let myself be seen in all of my messy, imperfect glory? What if I stopped editing my tears, my flaws, my anxieties, my quiet moments of solitude and self-doubt? What if I could let all of those things exist in the world without needing to package them into neat little bundles of wisdom?

There’s a quiet courage in being the poem. It’s a courage that isn’t born from putting words on paper but from stepping into the unknown—into the spaces where no explanations can reach. It’s the courage to let go of control, to surrender to the flow of life and to stop trying to dictate the direction of every single moment. The poem, in all its beauty, is an expression of a truth that is deeper than any explanation can go. It’s a moment of freedom that doesn’t need to be dissected or justified. It’s simply there, a presence, a feeling, a pulse, uncontained by logic or reason.

What if I could just exist in that space? What if I didn’t need to worry about how others perceive me, how they understand my story? What if I could simply flow like ink on a page, freely, authentically, without restriction or self-imposed boundaries? What if the truth of who I am, who I’ve been, and who I am becoming didn’t need to be structured into sentences or paragraphs, but could simply exist in its most vulnerable and unrefined form? What if my emotions, my thoughts, my struggles, and my triumphs were the verse, and I was simply the vessel through which they poured?

There is something sacred in that. There is something powerful in surrendering to the current of life rather than trying to paddle against it. There is a beauty in not knowing what the next line will be, in allowing the next chapter of my story to unfold without needing to script every word. I’ve spent so much of my life thinking that I have to have control over every moment, every decision, every piece of myself. I’ve convinced myself that if I’m not the one writing the story, then I am lost, adrift, disconnected from who I am meant to be.

But what if that’s the greatest lie I’ve told myself? What if I’ve been writing my own story for too long, forcing it into shapes and forms that don’t fit who I am at my core? What if, instead of writing it, I let life write me? What if I stop trying to control the narrative and simply allow myself to be the story, unfolding in real-time, without the need for analysis, without the need for perfection, without the need to explain every detail to others?

Being the poem means not needing approval. It means existing in a space where your authenticity is enough, where you don’t have to prove your worth or your value through your achievements or your words. It means being okay with not having the answers, with not knowing how the story will end, but trusting that it will be beautiful and true regardless.

I don’t need to be perfect to be the poem. I don’t need to know how to put every feeling into neat lines of poetry, or how to write the perfect ending to my life. I just need to be. I need to exist as I am, without apology, without restraint. To be the poem is to trust that my life, my experiences, my emotions, my pain, and my love are enough just as they are—no explanation needed.

So, what if for once, I’m the poem, not the poet?

What if I could release the constant need to analyze, to organize, to make sense of everything that flows through me? What if, in my vulnerability, in my messy, imperfect existence, I became the truest form of art that I could ever be? What if my tears, my laughter, my silence, my joy, my sadness—all of it—could stand alone as a piece of art, as a story in itself?

What if, for once, I let go of the pen and became the poem—the raw, unrefined, deeply human poem that doesn’t need to be explained or understood, but simply needs to be felt?

The answers don’t come in the structure of a poem. The answers don’t come in the careful choice of words. The answers come in the act of letting go. The answers come in the freedom of being the poem, not the poet. And in that freedom, I have found peace.

Neta.