They told you the sky was the limit,

But forgot to mention,

You were born wings,

Tucked beneath your doubt.

Imagination isn’t escape—

It’s return.

To place before fear,

Learned your name.

Before the world,

Boxed wonder into

“Real” and “not real”

Close your eyes,

and there it is—

A door with no key,

A field that bends to your will,

oceans made of music,

Mountains that speak of light.

You are the spark,

That turns “maybe” into “yes,”

“Impossible” into

Done quietly, at midnight,

With no applause.

Imagination isn’t for children.

It’s for the broken,

The bored,

The brave.

It’s the last candle,

When the world goes dark,

The map drawn,

By your own hand,

To places no one has dared to see.

Use it.

Not to run—

but to build.

Not to forget—

but to reclaim.

Not to dream—

but to begin.