Ten Years Hence: An Avant-Garde Odyssey of Becoming #poetry

Ten years from now,
I may be
a blister on the heel of ambition
or a feather on the cap of regret—
but let me not speak in “maybes.”
Let me smear certainty across this trembling canvas
with the quill of chaos.

They ask—
“Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”
I unroll a map of my mind,
crumpled, stained with spilled ink and apple cider.
The roads are paved in maybe.
The rivers hum with what if.
The mountains cough up old dreams.

I will be a museum
of myself, curated by wind.
My bones will rattle with philosophies I once flirted with,
but never kissed.
My hair, a rebellion against straight lines.
My eyes—clocks refusing to tell time.
My heart—an atlas of sighs.

In 10 years,
I will not wear watches.
Time will wear me like a cloak,
dragging me across its shoulders
like a stubborn myth.

I will speak less,
but my silences will be subtitled.
Each pause will grow teeth
and bite into your assumptions.
I will not “network,”
I will thread together stars
and call them companions.
My LinkedIn bio will read:
“Professional Daydreamer. Amateur God.”

There will be no cubicles
in the cathedral of my ambition.
My work will be to unwork
the knots in my spine
tied by decades of deadlines.
I will be a fire hazard in boardrooms,
a poetry leak in spreadsheets.

My house will have
mismatched chairs
for mismatched minds.
There will be rooms where laughter echoes
off walls built from rejection letters.
My mailbox will be stuffed with
"Hey, remember me?"
and "Why did you disappear?"

In ten years,
I’ll speak fluent silence.
I’ll write books that smell like the sea.
I’ll sign my name with an asterisk—
terms and conditions dissolved

I will not live
in a city
or a forest
but in the in-betweens—
where pigeons forget they’re birds
and poems forget they’re supposed to rhyme.

I will love like gravity—
not loud, but persistent.
Someone will pour coffee in my cup
and I’ll ask them how they like their heartbreak.
We’ll toast to failed revolutions and resurrected dreams.

I won’t measure success by
numbers, followers, ROI.
I’ll measure it by how often
I dance barefoot on a Tuesday,
how many times I hear
a child ask, “What’s that word mean?”
and I get to answer
with a story instead of a definition.

In ten years,
my skin may sag,
but my questions will stand taller.
I’ll carry riddles in my pockets
and toss them like breadcrumbs
for the next lost soul.
I’ll write letters to my past selves—
postmarked Nowhere, stamped with mercy.

No, I will not be
CEO, or CMO, or CFO.
I will be an &
between ideas.
A comma
where everyone expected
a period.

Ten years from now,
I’ll no longer flinch at mirrors.
I’ll look into puddles
and not see the sky pretending to be me,
but me, finally,
just being.

I will not chase
the pedestal.
I will plant my feet
in uncertainty
and grow
wildflowers from the doubt.

I’ll wear clothes that don’t fit
and ideas that do.
I’ll be allergic to templates,
immune to trends,
intoxicated by questions
no one dares ask anymore.

There will be no bucket list.
There will be a thimble of honey
I carry in my chest—
and each day I’ll feed it
to bees made of memory.
They’ll make a hive in my throat.
Every word I speak will buzz.

Ten years from now—
I’ll probably be late to something
I never agreed to attend.
I'll miss a call from my own future,
but call back anyway.

Maybe I’ll live
in a converted lighthouse
writing novels on ceiling beams
and painting metaphors on my floorboards.
Or maybe,
I'll be a librarian
in a town no map bothers with,
shelving secrets
between weathered spines.

Don’t ask me for a five-point plan.
Ask me for the constellation
in my left eye.
Ask me where I buried
the apology I never gave.
Ask me how many times
I’ve danced in public
to music only I could hear.

Because in ten years—
I will not be a destination.
I will be detours.
I will be all the wrong turns
that made the right stories.

And if someone dares
ask me again—
“Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”
I’ll answer:
“Right here,
but more me
than ever before.”

#Poetry #FutureSelf #IntrospectiveVerse #WhereDoYouSeeYourself #PersonalJourney #ArtisticExpression #CreativeWriting #PoeticVision