The world is a chisel—
blunt or sharp,
it strikes.
But I learned:
even dust
can become mountains.
I am the boulder.
I am the blade.
Stop waiting.
Shape the stone.
Let it split.
Let it scar.
Your hands,
your rebellion.
Break the boulder.
Break it smaller.
Smooth the edges,
carve the core.
Until the thing you forged
stands—
then strike again.
Perfection is not a peak,
but the next crack,
the next flaw,
the next rough face
waiting to be split open.
– By Shruti Sharma