Poetry


To Anya on her 30th birthday:
Hey.
You.
You with the imagined big tattoo of 30 across the face.
Not thrilled about being here
Believes somehow that the tattoo is visible to all
and that it perhaps means something.
Comparing yourself to others
who seem to be somewhere ‘better’ than where you are now
At 30.
You see, that 30, isn’t your 30.
Because someone else’s life isn’t your life.
These are the constructs of someone else.
These are illusions, not relevant to anyone, unless you’re comparing yourself to the arbitrary and meaningless.
For if you’re lucky enough to reach 30
you’re lucky to have made it at all.
Chances are you’ve seen some that didn’t make it
And those that didn’t make it in one piece.
And the sooner you realize that your dreams
do not fit into the perspective you have right now
because they are not arbitrary things
you will find out that you are not an arbitrary thing
defined by a number
because you can’t be. 
Because on this day
the universe brought you into being
 a light to shine on all the world
with gifts to give
Nothing less than amazing. 

2 thoughts on “Poetry

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