We Were Not Taught How to Hold the Future

They taught us dates

before they taught us consequences.

How empires fell,

but not how to catch ourselves

when hope slips on wet floors.

I grew up learning that history is past tense,

as if it doesn’t knock on our doors every morning

wearing our faces.

My country wakes up tired.

Even the sun hesitates before rising

as if asking,

are they ready today?

We are a generation fluent in survival.

We know how to laugh during blackouts,

how to fold dreams small enough

to fit into pockets with holes.

We know the price of bread

and the cost of silence.

Nobody warned us

that growing up would feel like translating pain

into productivity,

that resilience would become a compliment

used when repair is too expensive.

I write because talking fails me.

Because some truths are too heavy

for ordinary sentences.

Because poetry is the only place

I am allowed to be unsure

without being called weak.

They say the future belongs to us,

but they forgot to leave instructions.

So we improvise!

with borrowed courage,

with borrowed time,

with faith stitched together

by hands that are still shaking.

If this poem sounds unfinished,

it’s because we are.

Still becoming.

Still choosing softness

in a world that profits from our hardness.

We were not taught how to hold the future,

so we are learning

with open palms,

and hope that refuses to sit down.