71
It's my birthday today. I'm seventy one. There's not much
To celebrate. I've gotten old and become but a list of annoying
Afflictions, a heart that beats wrong, a hip made of metal,
A spleen swollen up by excessive white blood cells, and word
That things aren't going right with my kidneys. I tire too
Quickly, and pass through a world long leached of its novelty.
I cannot find things engaging or pleasing, since everything I see
Already is known. Exhaustion, discomfort, a hollow existence;
Given that these have accrued with the years, should I sing,
Happy birthday to me?
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2024-09-13 at 23:41
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by Lawrence Beck Latest textsDead EndAfter We're Gone Don't be So Sensitive C'est la vie Shut Up! |
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