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April 25th She carried the baby for nine precious months, The baby boy was delivered, everyone rejoice and sang a joyful song,
Most Birthdays, I weep. But not 17 When I was thirteen I cut my hair too short, and got that camera I wanted and I wept into my mothers shoulder because I didn't feel fufilled.
Six hospital visits: One for my baby cousin, Two for my sister’s knee, Three for my faulty lungs. Two writing competitions: One that I won,
Does life change, Will I feel different, Are the colors still the same, And the world still go 'round. Small changes come between each birthday,
Blue foil floating with helium A bloated star Stark against the snow, Given to a young boy by adoring parents With whom he’d spent long hours. Talked. Laughed. Played.
Three hundred sixty-five days in a year, But all but one are truly un-birthdays. Days not to celebrate births, but appraise Life, randomness, occupation, career, And concepts that physically don't appear.
Sometimes it’s like I can still feel her little fingers Pushing their way through the monkey bars of her cage, Still feel the gashes she made trying to claw her way out.