You Can’t Hold Me | Poetry

You say the world outside is too much—

too loud, too bright, too unsure.

And maybe you’re right,

but you forget what I carry inside.

When I close my eyes, the air shifts.

There’s a gate that creaks open somewhere far.

A place built not of stone but of thought—

my castle of dreams, tall, trembling, alive.

The power of imagination doesn’t ask for permission.

It slips through cracks in the silence,

finds a way to breathe

where even breath is not allowed.

I walk through streets that never existed,

hear bakers hum songs no one’s written,

see horses blur into light

and a prince whose face I almost know.

The freedom of the mind is a stubborn thing—

it won’t sit still when the world tells it to.

It sketches stars across ceilings,

builds oceans inside rooms without windows.

There’s an enchanted world just behind my ribs.

It wakes each time I remember

that walls only keep out those

who forget they can fly.

Some call it foolishness.

I call it creative freedom,

the pulse that keeps me from rusting

in the same safe place.

The power of imagination is not gentle—

it breaks, it burns, it sings.

It’s limitless creativity

spilling from what was once fear.

And yes, I still dream of the princess,

the garden, the laughter, the sky.

Not because they are real—

but because they remind me I am.

So no, you can’t stop me.

You can’t close a door

that opens inward.

The power of imagination lives quietly here,

unbothered by locks or reason,

teaching me every day

how to believe in myself again.