Dreams Never Do Come True
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
No one warns you
that some dreams are born already belonging
to someone else.
That you can spend a lifetime reaching,
straining,
breaking yourself open
just to touch the hem of a future
that was never stitched with your name in mind.
They say keep going.
They say work harder.
They say the universe rewards effort,
as if the universe is taking notes
on the nights you didn’t sleep,
the years you spent pretending hope
wasn’t poisoning you from the inside.
But the truth is quieter.
Crueller.
Some of us are meant to want,
not to have.
To spend years kneeling before the altar
of a dream that never once
turns its face toward us.
And still we keep going—
not because we believe,
but because stopping feels
too much like dying.
So we rise,
again and again,
offering our small, trembling hope
to a world that has already decided
it doesn’t want what we carry.
There is a particular ache
in being the person who tries
and tries
and tries
only to learn that trying
was never the currency
dreams demanded.
Some people are chosen.
Some people are not.
And some of us
build our entire lives
around a longing
that refuses to love us back.
This is the part no one tells you:
your dream may never arrive.
Not in this year.
Not in the next.
Not in the last soft breath
of your final attempt.
Some people get miracles.
Some people get possibility.
And some of us
are handed nothing but the hollow space
between wanting
and losing
and wanting again.
Not every wish blooms.
Not every path opens.
Not every life becomes the one
we begged for.
And sometimes—
most times—
dreams are just a beautiful story
we tell ourselves
to survive the parts
where they never come true.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
