Body {Prose Vol. 1}✔

67th Poem: Birthdays

in a hospital,

pushed out,

almost killed because of inner things,

choking me,

keeping me from breathing.

No,

I was not saved,

not taken by doctors and cleaned off,

taken and given my first breath of life.

No,

I was not made out of love from two people,

love from the One Above.

No.

I guess I have just been dead this entire time.

So don't ask me why I hate my birthday,

I mean, what is the point of celebration?

My own mother didn't even call 

and wish me a happy birthday,

she only said it when I called her,

and that made it feel insincere.

I got nothing from her this year as well,

but somehow I managed to get her something,

well, more than one somethings,

that could go forth as a late bday gift

(her fault I didn't see her on her bday so...)

and more than enough for Christmas presents.

Yes,

presents.

 I will not receive things;

I barely receive "Happy birthdays!"

And I will not feel good,

because no one is there to make it so.

I'll just get older,

by my lonesome,

looking up fun things

to bring my frown to a smile.

All by myself,

I'll sit.

No party

other than this party of one,

just waiting for the clock to strike midnight

so that the day will be over 

and I can rest easy,

knowing that the intense weight 

of a thousand boulders are off of my shoulders.

a/n

I still hate my birthday. That probably isn't going to change anytime soon so don't bother trying to convince me that my birthday is great. Like hell it is.