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 story has been illicitly taken; should you find it 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.