"is there a certain number of regrets a beatle has when he dies?"

a sick existentialist joke

i turned 20 yesterday,
and i want a smoke,
but hi-lite decay
creeps around my throat

theres a certain rustle,
beneath pharynx-rooted thistle
each breath ripping, each inhale futile-
it hurts to smoke let alone breathe

im not yet half the man im going to be.

i foresee the long road ahead
from a quarter of my time
those weeds winding through my lungs
do not take me to the door

my wrist watch with
veiny red led messaging,
the hacking and retching of
lungs and chest, my blackened reckoning

mccartney lives with regrets-
more than lennon did when he died.

that thought ruined my smoke

Reviews

[beren]

Everett's 20th Birthday Poem
The state of believing in the goodness of a person you don't know
a slight intoxication and a sharp wisdom
maybe I'm wrong
but my friend is worth to believe

my inner voice tells me that
every year of his life will be the best
and I send him an eternal life
which includes writing poems
that will satisfy his heart
and I hope it's always filled with happiness, love and health.

he's worth breaking my those rules "I won't write a poem again"


I will write a poem again, but that's not the point! And happy birthday my internet twin!

[Lara]

This piece, Everett, has a clever pun to twist the tail, which flares that smouldering feeling caught in the throat - from beginning to end.
Some well considered word choice here, with the allusion to "long & winding road" (by the bugs) very nicely employed.