Tag Archives: time

Seventeen Again

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Oh, to be seventeen again, 
waist deep in naivety and lessons to be taught up the road ahead. 

At that age, there was still so much I had to learn, 
Not sure what tortured me more, painstaking algebraic equations or innocent crushes never returned.

Always happy but never satisfied, with a constant craving for
something more.

Sometimes I wish I could go back,
so that this time around, I could slow down and savor every minute I had.

I’d hold on a little longer to all the ebbs and flows that come with getting older.
This life doesn’t get any easier—wish somebody would’ve told her. 

But how was I supposed to know, 
that’s just the way life goes?

If I knew then, what I know now,
I’d have realized sooner, there was nothing to worry so much about. 

I could, without hesitation, let go of the things that no longer serve me,
nor contribute to my peace.

I’d free myself from the constraints
of these growing pains,

stop trying to make 
life pick up the pace.

I still may not have everything exactly figured out, but without seventeen, 
I would’ve never been able to continue down this path, and grow into the woman I am now at twenty-three going on thirty.

I believe 23 has many great things in store for me. Here’s to getting older!

The Phony Poet

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In honor of World Poetry Day, here’s poem about a poet (me) who has only ever written her works via keyboard and computer screen to comply with the way this modernized society works, yet at the same time, often writing about her deep love for paper and the pen, which can at times feel “phony”. ✍🏻

Written in between these lines
are little lies, 
told by a poet who holds some secrets—
though she’s not sure how much longer she can keep them. 

The poet, who’s written of her love for the pen
time and time again,
truthfully, has yet to ink her words by hand onto pages in black.
She’s an imposter—who wears many masks.

Rather she’s been hiding behind a screen, 
ever since the world around her 
was taken over 
by these tempting technologies. 

She wants you to believe
that her words are told with pure sincerity.
Yet all she can do is feel guilty
as she sits back and watches libraries, precious sheets
of paper, and beloved books become obsolete.

The only feeling she really knows, is the touch of her fingertips to a keyboard—
that only leaves her hankering for something more. 

As she types,
she’s haunted 
by the sounds of these keys—click, click, click. 
She tosses and turns at night, 
feeling taunted 
by the cries of the clock in her mind that never ceases to tick, tick, tick.

Unknown, is just how much time there is left, 
so residing within her, are all these regrets. 
If only she could, she’d go back to a time
when the grace of a quill pen was still cherished and live amongst the greatest poets alive.

Think she ought to give up this charade,
pick up a pen, and let go of this masquerade. 
Because until then, no one will ever truly see
the beauty of it all and once it’s too late, all she might ever be known as—is the phony.