Today, people remind me
that I'm only 23,
which means,
young,

but getting old.

Still living in my
parents' home.
Doing what I want,
not what I'm told.

Wishing a salary
and cocktails at five
didn't sublime
the rest of my kind:

WORKERS
OF THE WORLD
who UNITE drunk
and dissatisfied.

Happy Birthday to me

Tell my boss
that his work
is no longer
for me.

Because I am not
a salesman to artists' dreams.
I am not
a collector of rappers,
displaying them
as one of many.
I am not
a puppeteer
tangling human beings
into commercial machines.

I am a poet.
I untangle strings,
and out of the mess,
create beautiful things.

Happy Birthday to me

Spoon honey
into coffee,
sweeten the daze
of a disturbed sleep.
I write the day
shamelessly,
after my cousin
texts me to ask
what I'm doing,
ASSUMING...

I'm planning a party maybe
starving myself into
a tight dress to
peacock my
mom's
delivery.
How can I explain
that writing poems and
eating cake are better presents for me?

Happy Birthday to me

Thank my parents
for supporting me.
Tell them I am happy
to veer from what
I was expected to be.
Ask them to defend
my insane belief that
people would ever pay
to read poetry.
Promise them,
I will make my passion
a career opportunity.

Or I will try,
until I don't breathe.

Because
half-*** attempts
at 23,
sow regrets
at 40.
And 23 years ago,
they bore me —
an infant
meant to be free.

Today,
I am still breathing.

Today,
I have friends
who support me. 

 Today,
I have a day
and a night
to live my dream.

And that's all I need.

Happy Birthday to me

I am 23.

And after nearly,
a quarter of a century,
I have finally found
my therapy;
My reason:
To be.
To breathe
the world,
I see not,
Death
Fear
or
Responsibilities

but

Life,
Love,
a­nd
  **Poetry.