Twenty-six
Once more round the sun,
twenty six years old so far...
to be honest, have I grown up?
As I am still unruly, still childlike.
Hey, wait a second...
I have pulled off the trigger
is that so wrong?
I still gather material, reckon.
My rhymes get sloppy,
but I still play with their etheral beauty.
I grow highly intense portraits,
I grive, suffer through laments.
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