Some call it burden, some a gift,

This weight of all you're meant to be,

This gravity that pulls at thee,

And makes the present always shift.

We chase the potential of tomorrow,

Forgetting that which we stand on now,

Bending beneath some sacred vow

To be more than what we borrow.

Perhaps potential is the trap—

This hunger for who we are not yet,

This endless, gnawing sense of debt

To all the space upon the map.

What if we stopped and simply were?

What if the answer lived right here,

In presence, breath, and what is clear—

Not everything we might defer.

The greatest potential we possess

Is knowing when we're enough.