Died at thirty, buried at sixty

I feel it in my bones, 

The coldness that the weatherman,

Predicted for a week from now!

I feel it on my messed-up knee,

That I shattered years ago,

On a hiking accident. 

 

When did I become so weak, so fragile? 

To feel pains that haven’t happen yet, 

To let people’s opinions,

Become my reality?

 

When did they break!?

And, I’m not talking about my knee, 

Or my bones, 

I’m talking about my mind, 

My spirit. 

 

What happened to the calcium of my soul? 

What Sun can give me, 

The much needed, 

Vitamin D?

 

I’m in my thirties, 

But I already carry a lot of dead weight, 

The trees of my dreams, 

Have become dead log, 

They block the view, 

Of long-lost hopes and dreams,

And I can’t keep drinking from broken glass, 

And smoke past cigarettes.

 

My poetry is bad, 

And Lana, darling, 

I can’t even blame the news, 

What happened to the whispers of my muse?

Even she has given up and doesn’t come to visit me,

Died at thirty,

Buried at sixty.   /*54745756836*/