When I grow old,
I want not tales of fancy cars,
nor a list of how much I was told
"You must be ladylike to go far."
I want tales of music and dance.
Stories where I tried and failed,
but atleast I took the chance,
and eventually prevailed.
I want mountains to have moved,
because they saw me go their way.
I want stars to have aligned,
because I worked hard to put them that way.
I want nature to remember me
as someone who had strived.
Not as a someone who was content to be,
or someone who merely survived.
YOU ARE READING
Messy Bouquets
Poëzie❝She was composed of messy laughs and an elegant soul, of wicked grins and a heart of gold.❞ my themeless thought dump of prose and poems
