Birthdays


    Another day, another year. When was it that I cease to care?


    It doesn''t feel like an achievement. Not a thing to celebrate.


    There''s grey in my hair. On my shoulders weight.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Nothing quite prepared me for turning twenty-eight.


    The days are moving far too swift.


    The months they seem to blur.


    Sometimes I look back and wonder


    At what my dreams they were


    And I know I deserve some blame for it


    That I became a falling star


    I don''t celebrate my birthday


    What would I celebrate for.