deepundergroundpoetry.com
30
30 years on this planet.
I wanted to die at 27.
I’ve never been good with time.
3 years past my prime.
I’m still here.
Little girl, Lost.
Alive.
But at what cost?
I may just stick around and find myself.
Pay my dues.
Let go of what I can’t excuse.
Apologize less.
Ruthlessly pursue my own happiness.
Pick and choose.
Win or lose.
Stop self medicating with booze.
Keep my circle small.
Remember to stay lookin’ ahead
so I won’t trip and fall
or face plant into a wall.
Life outta be worth more
than a popularity contest, after all.
Sounds promising.
When “they” say..
the future is for me and for you.
But then again..
it’s a pandemic
and
the depression sinks in every single day.
Ain’t enough wiggle room in the stimmy spend.
Life’s gotten crappier and that’s right on trend.
Make a wish “they” say.
So I lean in and bend.
“They” murmur and
nods of approval begin.
Well..
blowing out the candle signals the end.
The satisfactory applause comes from friends.
Here’s to another year of wiping my own ass
while my youth lasts
and I can still get in line
to buy toilet paper fast.
Eyes go wide and
adding to their harrowing surprise,
there’s an awkward silence
that I refuse to jump in and hide.
Getting old sucks.
But with any luck..
I’ll have less energy to pretend
and give as many fucks.
Now, get out.
Find a way to go home.
It’s my party
and I’d much rather get drunk
and puke alone.
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