What’s In Store For 24 

Earlier this month marked my 24th birthday. This past year has been one wild ride, full of ups and downs—characterized by birthday rainstorms, summertime power outages, and publishing my first book. One year later, and I couldn’t be more grateful for a less eventful, low key birthday simply surrounded by all the people I love. 

Typically every year for my birthday I write a blog, whether it be a reflective piece or a poem. I’ve accomplished so many of my creative goals already, from writing profiles on other individuals to publishing a collection of my own poetry, so this year I’ve pondered heavily about the question, what’s next for me?

I think many us can relate to the feeling of wanting to have all the answers in life. If this past year has taught me anything, it’s that this is merely impossible. We may never know why certain things happen, we may not know what comes next, and that’s okay. I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty. While the unknown can be scary, we have to accept that each waking day is a new opportunity for growth and learning, and allow ourselves this freedom. 

So when I ask myself, what’s in store for 24 year old me? The answer is simply: I don’t know quite yet—and that’s okay. What I do know, is that I will continue to soak up inspiration like a sponge. I will continue to seek creative opportunities, and create art when I feel inspired. I will continue to learn from other artists, and from the world around me. I will continue to grow my craft a little at a time, to stay in love with the art of written expression. I don’t know what’s next for me in my creative journey, I don’t know where I go from here, but I know that the only way to go is up, and in this feeling I am at peace. 

No Name

I’d rather have no name, than never know what it’s like to let you see into my soul. 
The leap of faith I’d take blindly, just so you’d latch on to every tale I’ve ever told. 

Of my name I’d beg to be stripped, 
if I could ever see my own thoughts in print.

On the dusty decrepit shelf of the bookstore, I don’t care,
just bind my scripts in lily-white sheets, where I’ve laid out my spirit bare.

I’d hope you dissect and ridicule every letter marked in ink.
Because without my musings I’d just further sink,

into a whirlpool of creations itching to get out, 
of this skin and bones where no one can hear them shout.

I’d choose being nothing but a mere no-name to you, over never falling in love with words.
If only by the world, mine could finally be heard.

Please, give this no-name a chance, 
and I’ll fight as if every move is my last dance. 

I pretend I don’t but I do, 
so badly just want to be something to you.

I’m not after fame,
yet I’d do whatever it takes, all for a stranger to know my name.