At 24,
I still don’t know who I am
and who I want to be,
I still get bouts of anxiety,
Still questioning my hopes, my faith, my identity

They tell me I’m smart, I’m pretty,
As if things get any more easy,
But the truth is I’ve never felt any of it,
Constantly reshuffling puzzle pieces that don’t fit,
Which part of me is smart when all I feel is clueless,
Which part of me is pretty when this face no longer lights up with hope,
When this heart just feels... incomplete

Things I dreamt of doing have become a distant reality,
I’ve lost track of time, writing poetry at two thirty,

Is this what growing up really feels like in this century?
A deadly pandemic, an economic downfall, a political mess, a vicious war-zone,
Too much of this turmoil and emotional complexities
For my head and heart to make sense on its own