A year of living and not just surviving

Nostalgia has become part of my personality,

 Really, I don't mind.

 I dig up old memories 

it's a revelation to rewind

Because though my eyes are the same shade of brown they were 365 days ago 

They now see things so much clearly, and forced my perspective to grow. 

I started romanticizing everything, the world is my canvas and it is vast, 

I started taking less pictures, because it's the memories that really last.

I started waking my self up early, 

And staying out late with friends.

I try to capture as much life as possible of every day before it ends. 

I felt aesthetic towards everything, 

Even flowers when they die, 

I taught myself it's not okay to hate myself, 

but it is okay to cry.  

I cut off 8 inches of my hair, 

and started wearing clothes I actually liked, 

because all I have is me, 

when I fall asleep at night.

I am for once content with my body, 

my freckles and my skin.

As long as I continue to love myself. Society will not win.

 Ive been used and I've been called every name on this earth, 

but I will never let that determine my own self worth.

Through heartache, reflection, 

and tears of joy,

I've learned to love myself, 

before I ever love a boy.

I've had friends walk out on me,

For reasons still unknown 

I was taken for granted  

for all the love that I had shown.

And though I lost so many people, 

New ones soon arrived

I survived my first car wreck, 

I feel lucky to even be alive. 

And my family is not perfect, 

no one's can ever be, 

but at least we love each other 

and pick up the debris.

And I tried to save people, 

Trust me, I did. 

But some of them got away, 

and some even hid. 

I had a lot of wanderlust, 

built up inside of me, 

I spent the summer on a plane,

trying to set it free. 

I did so many things, 

I wished that I could change, 

but they shaped who I became,

I have no need to rearrange. 

I may not appear the same as I did a year ago, 

but I'm happier, I am myself, 

and I'll never let that go.

Too many times I let people stomp on the flowers in my garden, because I knew they had nothing beautiful growing in theirs, 

but I am still thriving, Living, not just surviving.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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