What is the point of getting older?
Do you just shoulder pain, love,
words that haven’t been written yet?
Or do you get an ounce of regret
that brings you down?
You forget what you’ve done and think about what brought you to the brink.

Is this your brink? Or did you blink
To see a tiny glimpse of darkness?
Each year it’s growing bigger and bigger and words aren’t always coming out.
Neither is love.
But pain — it is always the same.
It feels like concrete if not worse,
Your fighting it, but in reverse.

Which means you’re fighting your own mind.

What stays behind apart from years?
Sundowns, sunsets, regrets or tears?
And fears. They hunt you down.
So what’s the point?
Is there one?