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.