April 8, 2024
I'm 22... but I once was 17.
I was 17 and I had this thing that I held onto that makes me less miserable.
It used to be a passion,
It used to be a family,
It used to be myself, even.
But it changed when I turned 17.
Fourteen, it was passion.
I could walk the walk and talk the talk.
I quoted "You'll remember my name someday."
Confidence was shy of me.
And the world of arts, academics and performance was my safety.
Fifteen, it was family.
I loved them dearly and I held onto the lies.
Because lies I could be in peace with.
And truths, they said I was too young to understand.
But that's what I do, keep my eyes shut with a hand.
Sixteen, it was me.
The only thing I could cling onto.
Because one by one, they're leaving.
But this phase didn't last long.
Seventeen.
The thing that gave me hope was my 18th birthday.
A day I prepared for and thought would give me peace.
But somehow I got scared, and I grinded my teeth.
Eighteen and a day.
I'm still here.
Oh why am I still here?
Didn't I promise to stop at 18?
I am now 22.
《ArwenSwritt
YOU ARE READING
A Sort of Diary
PoetryThis is a "diary" of emotions (some personal & some random thoughts I written), not a diary filled with pointless routines within a day. And I would like to share this with all of you because another path to self healing is through acceptance and be...
