Too nascent to be called seasoned

I've been meaning to write for a long time. but sometimes my words willingly remain hostage in my heart. Not wanting to be heard. Covered and crumpled. I cannot sink in I am 18. it's frightening, Getting old my mind is somewhere between the land and the sky, wishing to fly, but fears the fall. what if I am longing for the sunshine but chasing the moonlight? I am waiting for roses but is it not all thorns? what if I mistook 'mistake' as a failure and stop moving on? There it goes. Overthinking. A frequent visitor, who barges my house constantly. Full of impertinence. Making it abysmal. One simply writes down the beautiful and the doomed Until they manage to safely coexist And somehow this dilutes the pain. Such a beautifully paradoxical thing is Mind. "You have a magical way of unearthing summer in those dry Decembers. And of all the things you need to grow you've chosen roots So that one day you can touch the skies" it said. I remembered how I've always had this inaudible need, Deeply persistent as the ivy To reach for something beyond The roots of my capabilities. This number can't be an obstacle. Eighteen is too nascent to be called seasoned. And that's what keeps me going. Then my heart pulled softly the ends of those tears releasing my fear like a ribbon Coming quietly undone. The universe might be showing me That grey and white lies ahead But today I am all ready To show it how colourfully I can bloom.