Last week I celebrated my 36th birthday. The gift I bought myself, a six week one-on-one poetry workshop with Megan Falley kicks off tonight – I couldn’t be more excited. I wrote a lot last week, eight poems – I tweeted late Saturday evening that I wrote seven poems in seven days but I then wrote another poem just before bed. I’ve been writing quite a bit lately and I know the workshop will inspire me to write more. One of the poems I wrote last week was written the last day of my 35th year.
On the Eve of My 36th Birthday
I stare at myself in the mirror,
noticing the wrinkles that appear
when I smile,
the gray hair streaking through,
the extra pounds.
I stare at the accomplishments –
the big paycheck by 30,
the house, the car,
the name –
borrowed and then returned.
I think of the degrees,
the titles,
the business cards
I hand out like candy.
I think of the
good wine I can afford to drink and the
good friends I’m fortunate to share it with.
I think of the hopes and dreams
some accomplished,
some not.
I think of the pain and suffering,
striving and driving and
surviving and thriving.
I think of the strength of my words,
of my legs,
of my life.
I am 36, I am satisfied but I am
not
done
yet.
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