Old photographs tell a tale, Of a smiling face turned afraid. The kid wanted to be a man, And now when I am, I look upon it as a foolish mistake.
For the race has started, From the very teenage part. Asked to work harder, a prey for the earnest, A journey without a destination, How am I supposed to win if this race never ends? I must let this go, And rest to take a breath, Realise what I've been skipping, The colours of this wonderful flora, The sounds of birds echoing as a wave.