Birth Years

23rd November 2002, I'm turning 17 at 12:00AM , I'm still depressed so couldn't write a better poem. This was just a treat to myself. Lastly Happy Birthday to ME!

This mid-night I'll be counted on fingers again,

I'd be less child and more woman with each succeeding day,

And live in realistic than in innocent imagination.

I'll grow like a bud of rose,

Expanding my world across the calyx 

Breaking through into youth I'll spread my petals under sun.

I'll be bright and brighter and burn under the light,

Gradually I'll dry out of charm,

And droop in exhaustion of sufferings in the outside world,

On the end when I'll retire from my labor,

And be wrinkled, trembling and weak,

I'll prove this poem when I lay down to rest in peace.

Through the last journey of life,

I'll peep back into past,

When my corpse will be on fire at last.

Reviews

[John the Baptist]

Happy Birthday, indeed. The poem reads like a forecast of the life cycle. Don't know if it's starkly realistic or reflects the depression you mention. Hopefully you'll have enough good times to make up for that wrinkled, trembling and weak bit. Also, I applaud your choice of cremation; we'll need all the cemetery space we can get.

[Lea Sheryn]

Interesting concept on the journey through life.

[Christoph]

I like the way your poems seem to grow in urgency with each stanza. At least in my head.

Anyway, happy birthday, and many more. The stories you'll have to tell every year between now and the fire are sure to be doozies.

[R.J Calzonetti (Siniste..]

This could be the start of something better. It's all in how you view it. Take care.