Veins of the Unseen Leap: Volcanoes Don’t Ask Permission Before They Erupt #poetry

i took a risk
when i whispered a rebellion to the mirror
& didn’t flinch at the retaliation.

a Tuesday — (was it? who knows?)
the sky was a sour bruise
and my bones were an army
quietly preparing
to defect.

i left the job.
the desk. the fluorescent hum.
the clock-in-clock-out loyalty
to someone else’s dreams.
my resignation letter was a poem
full of typos & defiance —
HR didn’t understand enjambment.
they wanted bullet points.
they wanted reasons.
i gave them silence and
my spine.

risk?
it felt like dancing barefoot
on a floor made of ‘what ifs’ and unpaid bills.
felt like licking a thundercloud.
like swallowing the unknown
without chewing.
like skydiving without a chute,
but full of metaphors.

i thought the world would end.
it didn’t.
instead, it folded.
then unfolded.
like origami in reverse.
a crane becoming
a square again.

i took another risk —
wrote a book no one asked for,
with characters who hated their author,
sent it out like a message
in a bottle
to agents
who replied with
"no" in all fonts.
italics. bold. some kind. some cruel.
one said:
“Your work is unmarketable.”
i pinned it on my wall.
next to the unpaid parking ticket
and my grandmother’s old smile.

risk tastes like
coffee at 3 am
when you’re writing your 47th draft
and your cat is judging you
from the bookshelf.

i told someone i loved them.
they said, “thanks.”
i risked the silence that followed.
sat in it.
let it chew me slowly
like a thoughtful cannibal.
and survived.
mostly.

another time,
i kissed someone
before the rain started.
then another.
and another.
kept kissing
like every lip was a different kind of gravity.
some kisses were return tickets.
others were black holes.

love?
also a risk.
a beautiful one.
a slow-motion car crash
you volunteer for
with a smile
and an open ribcage.

i moved cities.
became a stranger
in a place where vowels
stretched differently.
risked being nobody.
no reference points.
no context.
just me & a suitcase
& a craving
for reinvention.

i cried in the supermarket aisle.
aisle 9. lentils & detergents.
called my mother and said,
“i think i made a mistake.”
she said,
“then make another.
but don’t stop moving.”

i risked therapy.
the kind that peels you.
where you say,
“i’m fine,”
and they say,
“try again.”

i risked being understood.
which is scarier
than being alone.

i told my story
to a stranger on a train
who said,
“you should write about this,”
so i did
but called it fiction
because sometimes
you have to lie
to tell the truth.

i risked sobriety.
from substances,
yes.
but also from
toxicity.
from nostalgia.
from people who only called
when they were drowning
and threw me the anchor.

i risked rest.
unproductivity.
lazy Sundays.
books i didn’t finish.
conversations i left mid-sentence.
emails unanswered.
notifications ignored
like old lovers.

i risked quiet.
because the loud had
worn out my soul
like cheap shoes.

once, i wrote a letter
to the person i used to be.
burned it.
in the sink.
watched the smoke form
words she would’ve never said.
that was a risk too.
letting go of a ghost
you raised yourself.

did it work out?

yes.
no.
not always.
sometimes.

i failed.
successfully.
broke.
beautifully.
loved.
wrongly.
changed.
without permission.

but every time
i leapt —
even if i fell —
i found something.

a bruise.
a stanza.
a stranger who became
a shelter.
a version of me
i hadn't yet met.

and now,
when people ask,
“when’s the last time you took a risk?”

i say:
i woke up this morning
with hope in my mouth.

that counts, right?

You find a feather in your mouth when you wake up.

You don’t own a bird.
Or remember swallowing one.
But there it is, delicate, damp with dreams.
It smells like stormwater and childhood.
You carry it around for days
like a secret no one asked you to keep.

This is your next risk.

You follow the feather.

No, really.

You get on the wrong bus on purpose,
talk to someone who believes in parallel lives,
eat a fruit you can’t name,
and chase a dog who leads you into an alley
where the walls hum with graffiti
that rearranges itself
every time you blink.

You begin to forget your address
but remember your childhood phone number.
You stop checking the weather.
You stop rehearsing your answers.
You start listening to dreams
as if they’re GPS instructions
spoken backwards by a future version of yourself.

At one point, you lose your name.
You drop it
like an overdue library book
at the feet of a man who sells paper moons
stitched with the names of extinct emotions.

You buy one called “Pre-fear.”
You carry it in your chest
where your name used to live.

Then —
you walk into a building made of mirrors.
But none reflect you.
Instead, they show versions of you
that took other risks —
the ones you didn’t dare.

That version of you
who said yes instead of sorry.
Who kissed them back.
Who left earlier.
Who stayed longer.
Who broke the rules
before they calcified into cages.

You are surrounded
by ghosts of decisions
that never happened.
They don't blame you.
But they hum
like old television static —
a sound you can feel
in your teeth.

Then one mirror
cracks.

A voice steps out.
It’s you.
But not.
Same jawline.
Different fire.

She/He/They says:
“You are not your safe choices.”

And the room explodes.
But quietly.
Like snow falling upward.
Like time saying,
“okay, enough pretending.”

You are flung into a library of endings.
Each book is your name
written differently.
Some burned.
Some blooming.

You choose one at random
and eat the pages.
They taste like metal
and forgiveness.

You fall asleep in that dream,
then wake up inside another.

Now you are in a theatre.
Empty seats.
Stage lit.
Script missing.
And a sign above the curtain reads:

"THIS IS THE SCENE WHERE YOU RISK EVERYTHING."

So you walk onto the stage.
Barefoot.
Unsure.
You speak
without knowing what you'll say.
You sing
in a voice you’ve never used.
You scream
with centuries in your throat.
You dance
as if your blood is remembering
something sacred
that your mind has forgotten.

And just as the curtains rise
and the spotlight finds you,
just as you feel the entire universe
lean in —
to listen —

You look out into the audience
and see
every version of yourself
you’ve ever been,
clapping.

Even the coward.

Even the liar.

Even the one who stayed
when they should’ve run.

They’re all standing.
Weeping.
Applauding like saints.

You bow.

And you understand
that the climax of risk
is not the fall.
Not the leap.

It’s the moment you recognize
you were the volcano
the whole time.

I wake now
not in triumph,
not draped in laurels or wrapped in applause,
but in a kind of nakedness
only truth allows.
The mirror no longer shimmers
with threats or alternatives.
It just reflects —
a face I no longer need to argue with.

There is peace
in not needing to know how it ended
as long as I know I began.

You,
yes, you —
you standing on the precipice
pretending you're just waiting for a sign
or a better day
or someone to nudge you,
you who’s reading these words
with a quiet throb in your chest
you don’t want to name…

Ask yourself this:

When the ground under your certainty turns to mist,
will you still clutch your calendar,
or will you jump barefoot into the unknown
and call it holy?

You’re not late.

You’re not broken.

You’re just
arriving.

So take the risk.
Hold it like a candle in a windstorm.
Kiss it with the mouth that’s gone silent too long.
Name it after the version of you
who still believes in magic.
And when the world asks
if you regret it—

say:

I don’t regret the fall.
I regret the years I clipped my wings
and called it safety.

Say it loud enough
so your shadow hears it.

Say it soft enough
so your soul understands.

Because now,
the curtain doesn’t fall.

It lifts.
And this time,
you’re already on stage.
No script.
Just breath.
Just blood.
Just you.
Alive.

#Poetry #Verse #TakeTheRisk #Journey #VoiceWithin #Writing #ThroughTheStorm #LiminalLiving #Surreal #Healing #RiskAndReward #BecomingYou #IntrospectiveArt #CreativeAwakening