<p>We’re walking tightropes, thin as a thread,</p><p>Not quite a child, not fully ahead.</p><p>Our voices wobble, our hearts unsure,</p><p>Chasing the new while clinging to yesteryear.</p><p>They tell us “be grown,” hand us the rules,</p><p>But never the keys to life’s tricky schools.</p><p>We dress up in courage, pretend we know,</p><p>While inside, we tumble, soft and slow.</p><p>We dream of the selves we’ve yet to be,</p><p>And mourn the old shadows still clinging to me.</p><p>Laughter erupts, then quickly hides,</p><p>Between wild joy and quiet divides.</p><p>A notebook of feelings, scribbled and tight,</p><p>We’re sculpting new wings in the dead of night.</p><p>Each mistake a brush stroke, each tear a clue,</p><p>The awkward is ours, and the awkward is true.</p><p>So here we stand, between then and now,</p><p>Learning to stumble, learning just how.</p><p>Neither child nor adult, yet fully alive,</p><p>In this messy, shining, chaotic drive.</p><p><br/></p><p>The things I think before I sleep series, final part</p>