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.