It's my birthday
It's March eight
Two friends didn't text
They forgot my birth date
I shouldn't feel this way
But it's making me mad
It reminds me of my 7th birthday
Which makes me sad
I threw a party
There were a lot of people I knew
I'm still not over it
So every year I'm feeling blue
They pretend to like me
But they don't
They care today
But tomorrow, they won't
I know I should be having fun
And go out
But I'm not the kind of girl
That likes to be so loud
I only talk
So I can speak
That is the thing
That makes people think that I'm weak
I never really knew
How to stand up for myself
Learned it pretty late
At twelve
That made birthdays
The worst thing to exist
So I guess
I'll never make a birthday guest list.
(The first lines are no hate to my friends, I'm often overly dramatic in my poems. Everybody forgets birthdays sometimes.)