Birthdays

Another day, another year. When was it that I cease to care?

It doesn't feel like an achievement. Not a thing to celebrate.

There's grey in my hair. On my shoulders weight.

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Nothing quite prepared me for turning twenty-eight.

The days are moving far too swift.

The months they seem to blur.

Sometimes I look back and wonder

At what my dreams they were

And I know I deserve some blame for it

That I became a falling star

I don't celebrate my birthday

What would I celebrate for.