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They said, “Work hard. The doors will open.”

So we worked.

Burned nights to ash.

Swallowed books like bitter bread.

Dreamed in rooms that smelled of stale air and fluorescent light.

And then

the gates.

Heavy. Rusted.

Each one stamped with the same command:

“Experience Required.”

How do you climb

when the ladders start in clouds?

How do you fly

when they count your feathers

before you grow wings?

We smile in photos,

but cracks hum under our skin.

We wait in rooms where clocks

mock us with their hollow hands.

Hope curls in corners like torn posters,

whispering promises that never arrive.

So we run

not to escape,

but to breathe.

To find a sky where effort matters

more than a name,

more than a family tree carved in gold.

And when we leave,

they’ll ask why.

Tell me”

how do you love a home

that never opened its doors?

Still, in the silence,

we sharpen our roots.

One day, we will split the stone.

One day, the world will speak in our names.