At 17,
I remember the first moment—
it didn’t shine in the sky,
I didn’t feel its presence.
Was it a sweet curse?
I woke up with a pen in my hand
and a wild need
to write.
A first word?
A fragment of nonsense,
dressed in lies.
Years passed.
The girl I was has grown.
She’s no longer 17,
no longer holding an unknown pen.
Because now,
at 24—
with over 300 poems,
I have this feeling:
I am not just a poet.
I am me.
Dec 20, 2025
Dec 20, 2025 at 6:41 PM UTC
At 17,
I remember the first moment—
it didn’t shine in the sky,
I didn’t feel its presence.
Was it a sweet curse?
I woke up with a pen in my hand
and a wild need
to write.
A first word?
A fragment of nonsense,
dressed in lies.
Years passed.
The girl I was has grown.
She’s no longer 17,
no longer holding an unknown pen.
Because now,
at 24—
with over 300 poems,
I have this feeling:
I am not just a poet.
I am me.