When I was young
I wanted to be
cool and styled and sipping tea
at a desk, or coffee shop.
Amidst a crowd, I’d sit, stopped
in a mystic reverie;
Musing, writing, pen flowing free
in a journal, whose pages swell
with lines and loops and stories, tell!
A writer, in all turns of phrase;
to be one when I turned of age
was a wish I dreamed reality.
And now, astounded, here I sit
flying cross the air as swift
as those fateful flutterings
in my heart. Only, now save pen,
my fingers dart over keys,
like music playing;
words a-swishing and a-swaying
like a river in my mind
and to the page they come in kind
to life, to live, to immortality;
a record of my reality.
Who was once was a distant soul,
a protagonist o’er which I’d toll
and toss and toil and turn at night to be –
Alas! Behold! – is now me.
No more a figment, but self actually.
Now, as I ponder futures to come,
I sit back and marvel at what I’ve already done:
To travel and make friends in places strange and new;
To take on learnings that have challenged me and grew;
To question what is superficial versus what is true;
To, independent, traverse the earth
and find myself anew.
Inspired, I revere how life has reared its head
And through some pains, joy blossoms red
with heart and soul and possibility.
How wondrous it is, honestly,
To simply be,
And to be me.