The coin buys bread,
yet leaves the soul famished.
The job keeps the lights on.
But it dulls the edge of who you are.
Your real life isn’t in the paycheck,
it’s in the notebooks you bury until tomorrow,
the words you silence,
the music vibrating,
No one is coming to set them free, but you.
So steal the time.
Steal it from the night.
Steal it from the noise.
Shut down the minutia.
Even fifteen minutes can be enough.
Because the plow may turn mother earth,
but the pen turns the soul.
What you hide in drawers grows restless,
pressing against the wood,
longing to breathe.
Your internal song is waiting to be heard.
Creation doesn’t wait for permission.
It waits within you.
Begin, and the hidden world you’ve carried will no longer fit inside the dark.
Permission is an illusion.
The gate is already open.
Step through, or remain the keeper of your own prison.
Dial the numbers because what really matters isn’t stored for you by some machine, it’s carried in your memory, inside your soul inside of you.
c 2025 Chu The Cud
All Rights Reserved
Chu The Cud 