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.
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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.