At twenty-three, the world's so wide,
A canvas fresh, with dreams to guide.
I pen my thoughts in ink and dreams,
In quiet hopes and midnight schemes.
The words I write are tales untold,
Of heroes bold and hearts of gold.
I chase the muse through every page,
A dreamer's heart in this young age.
Each sentence forged, each line a flight,
I sculpt the day from starless night.
The future's vast, a mystery,
But here I stand, with pen in hand, at twenty-three.
I dream of books on crowded shelves,
Of stories that will speak for themselves.
Yet doubts may whisper, fears may rise,
But still I reach for distant skies.
For in the quiet of my room,
I weave a world that breaks the gloom.
At twenty-three, with dreams so bright,
I chase the dawn, embrace the night.
The road is long, the path unclear,
But hope will guide me through the fear.
At twenty-three, with heart aglow,
I'll chase the dreams that only I know.
YOU ARE READING
She's antiromantique
PoesiaShe was heartbroken, instead of the revenge she wrote, she wrote like no one else ever did, every feeling, every sense of discomfort, every thought, was written down, in every book corner, every piece of paper, every napkin, knowing that all of them...
