Turning twenty-four is nothing more
than a frame that holds a door.
My eyes are fixed upon a
job that I struggle to seek
a couple months before
I reach my peak.
The only baby I still cradle,
is my pot of creativity
that I stir with my ladle.
As time passes by, I dream
of my highs while riding
in my lows because reality
is originality, and fantasy
is a mask in disguise.
