The Unopened Hands of a Restless Mind

I. Opening: The Whispers That Never Landed

The wind carries letters written in light,
but my hands, clenched tight,
cannot catch what does not crash.

I have seen rivers curl around stones,
heard the sky sigh against the weight of rain,
felt the hum of life in the spaces between words—
yet, I hold nothing.

Empty palms, hollowed chest,
a mind lined with rusted gates,
clanking against the silent offering of dawn.

The gifts come softly,
like moonlight through a keyhole,
like laughter beneath a closed door,
like a songbird singing to an unlistening world.

Yet, I—
buried in the architecture of overthinking,
lost in the ruins of unspoken fears,
stitched into the seams of an unraveling yesterday—
I do not hear.

I do not see the morning waiting,
its arms open, unshaken by my silence.
I do not touch the pulse of possibility,
for my fingers have forgotten how to reach.

Life has sent me letters,
wrapped in sunrises, painted in echoes,
folded into the shape of second chances—
but unopened envelopes do not sing.

Gifts without a receiver
are mere offerings to the void.

And the void—
it does not want them.

It only wants me.

II. Mind: The Kingdom Without a King

Inside the skull's cathedral,
where echoes preach to empty pews,
thoughts march in circles,
their footprints layering dust over the same old grief.

The mind, a minister of maybes,
a kingless throne room,
a battlefield without victors.

Neurons whisper sermons of scarcity,
chanting hymns of hesitation,
prayers shaped like locked doors.

The mind clutches rusted compasses,
misreading every north,
mistaking every sunrise for wildfire.

If the mind is a garden,
it is one where weeds are worshipped,
where petals dissolve before they can unfold.

What grows here?
Regret—tall as tombstones,
Doubt—tangled as ivy,
Fear—rooted deep,
tendrils wrapped around unopened gifts,
twisting ribbons into nooses.

Life knocks.
The mind does not answer.

III. Place: The Cartography of Displacement

Where are you?
Where have you built yourself?

Are you a house with missing windows,
a streetlamp without a city,
a lighthouse warning ships that never come?

A place is not merely a point on a map,
but a space where the soul is allowed to breathe.

If the mind is fractured,
so is its dwelling.
A home shaped by hesitation
cannot hold the weight of the sky.

The body walks in daylight,
but the mind—
the mind wanders elsewhere,
dragging shadows from rooms long abandoned.

Can you stand still in the now?
Can you let your feet settle
into the soft hands of this moment?

Or are you still running,
chasing the horizon that disappears when you reach for it?

IV. Acceptance: The Art of Open Hands

To accept is to unfold,
to uncurl the fingers
that have grown too accustomed to clenching.

Acceptance is not surrender.
It is not the white flag of defeat,
but the silent embrace of what is.

To receive a gift,
one must first believe they deserve it.

The rain does not ask if the earth is worthy.
The sun does not question if the sky has earned its warmth.
The river does not hesitate before reaching the sea.

But the mind—
oh, the mind argues.
It doubts the weight of joy,
questions the shape of love,
suspects kindness of deception.

If you do not accept the morning,
the sun will still rise.
But you will not feel its warmth.

If you do not accept love,
it will not stop existing.
But you will not know its touch.

If you do not accept yourself,
the world will not disappear.
But you will move through it
as if you were never here.

V. Gift of Life: The Currency of Presence

Life gives in whispers,
in the hush of a leaf drifting to earth,
in the breath between heartbeats.

Not all gifts arrive in glittering paper.
Some come wrapped in silence,
in the curve of a stranger’s smile,
in the weight of stillness before a storm.

The universe does not owe you explanations.
It does not send invoices for miracles.

You were given air,
the currency of breath.

You were given sky,
a canvas for the untamed gaze.

You were given time,
not as a debt,
but as a space to create, to feel, to be.

The hands of life are always open.
It does not ask why you hesitate.
It does not beg you to receive.

But it watches.

And it waits.

VI. Closing: The Unfolding

Somewhere, a child reaches for a dandelion.
They do not ask if they deserve its softness.
They do not question if it is meant for them.
They simply take it,
hold it,
blow it into the wind,
trusting that joy can be scattered,
that it will land somewhere new.

The mind can be a locked room,
or it can be a garden.

The hands can be clenched,
or they can be open.

The heart can refuse,
or it can say—
yes.

Yes, to the morning that arrives without condition.
Yes, to the kindness that does not keep score.
Yes, to the laughter that spills without permission.

There is a gift waiting at your doorstep.
It does not knock.
It does not demand.

It simply is.

And when you are ready—
when your mind is quiet,
when your place is steady,
when your hands are open—

it will be there.

It was always there.

#Poetry #Mindfulness #MentalHealth #Acceptance #GiftOfLife #SelfAwareness #Healing #Existence #Transformation