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𝄞꒱ Sims 4 Cutecore Set Ꮺ୧ ˚ ﹒

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𝄞꒱ I used the Kiu sim

Written by Aaliyah O'Neil

This poem was inspired by the prompt 'Ambition,' provided by @ghostingmyghosts and hosted by @picklemafia .

At five, I swore I’d join the stars—

A NASA suit, a seat on Mars.

With foil-wrapped boots and starry eyes,

I launched from gravel into skies.

At eight, I ruled the jungle green—

A zookeeper, both fierce and keen.

My lion roared; I roared back twice—

The garden pulsed with wild advice.

At ten, I trained for covert life—

A future agent, sharp as knife.

With torch in hand and bugged-out vents,

I filed reports and tracked events.

MI6 was where I’d go—

A licence for what none should know.

At thirteen, I began to fade—

Too loud, too odd, too much afraid.

I hoarded thoughts beneath my bed,

And only spoke with pens instead.

At fifteen, I would heal and mend—

An NHS doctor, wounds to tend.

I traced the heart in every book,

And studied pain in every look.

At eighteen, words rewrote my fate—

I turned from scalpels to create.

Poetry stole my will to fight;

I found myself in ink and night.

At twenty-five, I planned a life

Of Sunday shops and being a wife.

Two mugs, one sink, a porch, a song—

A quiet love, both safe and strong.

At thirty, motherhood took root—

Not just the child, the fierce pursuit.

Through sleepless dawns and Lego mines,

I shaped our world in softer lines.

At forty, I began to crave

Some time to keep, some peace to save.

I cut the noise, embraced the slow,

And learned the grace of letting go.

At fifty, I still danced alone,

But claimed the rhythm as my own.

I laughed, I cooked, wore what felt right—

And kept my clever tongue alight.

At sixty, memory blurred the view—

But scent and song still drifted through.

My daughter’s laugh, a lullaby,

Still simmered in my shepherd’s pie.

At seventy, I sought old friends—

The ones who knew my odds and ends.

We shared old sins and cups of tea,

And stitched the past with honesty.

At eighty, I became a guide—

No shame left now, no need to hide.

They came for cake, stayed for my lore,

And left with more than they came for.

At ninety, love was all I kept—

A hand to hold, a dog that slept.

No medals gleamed, no statues rose—

Just peace that only old age knows.

At one hundred—if I get there—

Let children charge the garden air.

Let dreams run wild, let laughter play,

And bless the dusk of one more day.

© Aaliyah O'Neil 2025. All rights reserved.