Old soul


Being an old sould is something I’m Usually proud of,

And why wouldn’t I be? 

I know so much, so young

I understand things I shouldn’t,

I recognize pain I never felt 

I know lessons, I never learnt

It’s flattering and awful, the same time,

The foresight of life as a whole, stops me

From growing, for I’ve already grown A million times 

While still being a teenager

The experiences which I thought would impact me

Never really shook me, 

For I found my way out of them without struggle

People say, it’s a boon,

But is it?

 Living a life so monotonous,

So unhappening,

so consistent,

It should make me happy you know?

But it doesn’t,

Because I’m an impressionist,

Always Craving for adventure, 

Always hoping for drama.

no one knows that,

 That’s a part of me I never bring forth,

Fearing the uninvited criticisms that might follow.

I wish I could trade places with my friend,

Whom I helped become a wonderful young woman,

Healing her scars and helping her self reflect,

I can’t seem to erase her twinkling eyes from my memory,

When she fell in love with her flaws,

Flaws which became her strength 

And made her the woman she was meant to be.

I wish I could transform into a human

I adore, a person I praise,

 But it seems, consistency is what I’ll always have,

I know it because it’s Carved in my palms with a supernatural ink.

 An ink, which never lies,

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