THIS is a poem about birthdays 5.1.17

 

5.1.17

It is my birthday.

Why is this something to celebrate?

It only means I’ve survived another year while getting closer to death.

Instead,

I’d prefer to be given a number at birth, say 67, and every year that number decreases, 66…65…64…

And when or if the number depletes

and I outlive my presumed lifespan,

everything will change.

People will pretend I’m dead, even though I’m not.

They will attend my funeral with me.

Afterwards, I will be a walking memory, a living retreat,

as important and unimportant as the air surrounding your head as you read this.

I will be a ghost that everyone sees, I will be a ghost real enough to touch things, I will be a ghost who haunts the people he loves and attempts to love the people who hate him, I will be of no real impact to the world yet a part of it all the same,

so I suppose nothing much will change.


Written at 9:49 in the morning, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, before leaving for Disneyland. 

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