The Art of Being Me

Somewhere between who I was

and who I might become,

there is a little universe

learning how to breathe.

I keep a thousand sunsets in my head,

And a hundred things I’ve never said.

I laugh like nothing ever hurts,

While hiding little storms beneath my shirts.

The moon knows things I never tell,

Like how I’m fine, but not quite well.

How certain songs can steal a day,

And take my loudest thoughts away.

I collect the words I almost speak,

And wear them like a smile each week.

I build whole worlds from passing glances,

And turn small moments into chances.

Some days, I’m fire dressed in blue,

Some days, I don’t know what is true.

I want to fly, I fear the sky,

I crave the stars, yet question why.

My dreams wear shoes that do not fit,

My heart writes poems I never submit.

I want the world to know my name,

Yet hide my face from its bright flame.

There’s music in my overthinking,

And poetry in my quiet sinking

Into the space between the real

And all the things I almost feel.

I change like seasons change the trees,

With restless roots and wandering leaves.

One day, I’m certain I know it all,

The next, I’m scared of standing tall.

I miss the child I used to be,

Yet beg the future to set me free.

I’m homesick for a place I’ve never known,

And learning how to call myself my own.

Sometimes, I wish the clocks would bend,

So growing up would take its time to end.

For everyone says, “Enjoy these days,”

While I’m still lost inside their maze.

And maybe that’s the secret art—

To be a question with a beating heart,

To be unfinished, strange, and true,

With a thousand selves still breaking through.

So let me be the rain and sun,

The half-written and the just-begun.

Let me be the mess, the magic, the in-between,

The softest truth that I’ve never seen.

For I am not lost, nor fully found,

Just a little universe spinning around.

And if growing up means changing endlessly,

Then perhaps the best thing is becoming me.