#thirtyaf
A week ago, I saw the doc,
He sighed and said, "You're done."
His gaze was sharp, his mood was stock
Of doom that weighs a ton.
According to the doctor, who
Did the tests - left me in rage -
And I can say, he did a few,
I now have reached a certain age.
"Congratulations! To the grave!
Your warranty's expired."
He squinted, acting bold and brave,
And jotted, uninspired.
Now, I'm not old, I'm still alive,
Mid-thirties, barely used!
He acts like I cannot survive
And I'm not even bruised.
"This number's grim," he softly spoke,
And slid the labs my way.
"Prepare for cracks and brittle smoke,
The slow decline's display."
This sentence left me in a rage,
It brought me close to tears.
If I have NOW a certain age?
What am I in ten years?
Will I then be fossil folk?
Geriatric garbage, yes?
A day away from my first stroke?
A muddled medical mess?
A certain age? What does that mean?
I am just mid-thirty!
Yes, I know, I'm not eighteen,
But I'm still strong and sturdy!
A certain age, what does it say?
I'm only halfway through.
A ticking clock that won't obey?
A joke I never knew?
A certain age! - Oh, should I laugh?
Who was I consulting?
I am more than just a graph
Or number! That's insulting!
A certain age! Doc, **** yourself!
I count myself as young,
Now go, read books from your big shelf,
While I show you my tongue!
As long as I don't smell of mold,
Nor creak with every step,
I'll dance defiant, young and bold,
Not ready for death's debt.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC