They say I don’t fit.
They say I don’t shine.
They laugh at my silence.
They draw their lines.
They think this is all
that I will be.
They only see now.
They don’t see me.
I’m not finished.
Not even close.
There’s more inside
than anyone knows.
You haven’t met me yet.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not me.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not yet.
You haven’t met me yet.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not me.
Not me.
Not yet.
You haven’t met me yet.
They measure my worth
by what they see.
They talk like they know
what I’ll be.
But seeds in the dark
still find the sun,
and quiet hearts
still become.
I’m still growing.
Still becoming.
What feels small now
won’t stay small for long.
Not broken.
Just beginning.
Not finished.
Still living.
Not done.
Not through.
There’s more to me
than you knew.
You haven’t met me yet.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.
You haven’t met me yet.
Not me.
Not yet.
Not me.
Not me.
Not yet.
You haven’t met me yet.