She ponders her next line,
a scribble born of soft defiance—
young life, not yet weathered,
but dreams? Aye, plenty.
Little lived, much felt.
Already a veteran of pain,
friendships that weren’t,
love imagined in moonlight,
romance penned then crossed out.
She writes, then scores through it.
Deletions, like her days—
half-formed, half-forsaken.
The noise of words rumble on and on,
spoken harshly, but why? She asks.
She wonders,
as her poem takes shape.
Fear, pain—she feels it all.
Just one of many,
a lass caught in the crossfire
of careless truths.
Jealousy flows,
friendships torn today.
But come tomorrow,
a poem of joy might rise—
lines mended, hearts stitched.
Until the next time.
Until the next tear.
This is the journey.
This is growth...
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 5:00 AM UTC
She ponders her next line,
a scribble born of soft defiance—
young life, not yet weathered,
but dreams? Aye, plenty.
Little lived, much felt.
Already a veteran of pain,
friendships that weren’t,
love imagined in moonlight,
romance penned then crossed out.
She writes, then scores through it.
Deletions, like her days—
half-formed, half-forsaken.
The noise of words rumble on and on,
spoken harshly, but why? She asks.
She wonders,
as her poem takes shape.
Fear, pain—she feels it all.
Just one of many,
a lass caught in the crossfire
of careless truths.
Jealousy flows,
friendships torn today.
But come tomorrow,
a poem of joy might rise—
lines mended, hearts stitched.
Until the next time.
Until the next tear.
This is the journey.
This is growth...
I first meant to write about a boy, but a girl stepped in instead maybe because shes a metaphor for parts of myself I rarely name. Her voice carried the truth more clearly. This poem follows her as she writes through hurt and hope, scoring out lines the way life sometimes scores through us, growing one word at a time.
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