Between the Lines #4: 25

They say when you arrive at 25, your brain turns on

illuminating the dark and scaring the shadows out of corners

I thought it meant wisdom, and freedom, and newfound patience

but I’m old now, thirty knocking clear and loud

and the poetry doesn’t flow from my pen quite the same

and when I’m tired, I sleep, instead of raging against the dusk

and when I’m hurt, I carry on instead of lighting the world aflame

Foreign as the present is, I’m happy to be here

for age is a gift not given surely

but I’ve done all my growing and I’m still lost

and I’m still cold and I’m still alone

and the words just don’t flow from my pen as easily

because now I choose them carefully

and I offend fewer people

and I say "yes" more often than I would prefer

and there are always things to do

because all time is measured by how much I’ve wasted

and, while I do feel like the best version of me

I quietly long for that childish vivacity

that striking candor that made me who I am

Who I was