At seventeen, I walk this line,
Between what's lost and what's mine.
MATURE in ways they cannot see,
While others dance in youthful glee.
I hide my gifts, I shrink from light,
For fear they’ll claim what isn’t right.
They flaunt their pride, so loud, so sure,
Yet their certainties feel so impure.
I loathe the arrogance they wear,
Yet hate myself for how I care.
For in my heart, I see the truth,
That self-awareness often wastes in youth.
I exist for no one else but me,
My deeds unseen, a quiet plea.
Misunderstood, they call me bold,
But selfish? No, that’s not my mold.
I’ve wasted time, I’ve tried to please,
To fit a mold that wasn’t me.
But now I see it’s all in vain,
A cycle of self-inflicted pain.
Some call me friend, but I can see,
They’re only close when it suits their need.
Their empty words and careless ways,
They leave me hollow, lost in a haze.
They act as if they care so much,
But their warmth is cold, a shallow touch.
I laugh and smile, but it feels off,
Like I’m just playing some tiring scoff.
I've seen a few, wise and kind,
But they’re too far for me to find.
Their presence feels a distant star,
Too far to reach, too bright, too far.
end,,,,,,
