It doesn’t feel any different to me,
To be aging to year twenty-five.
It just feel the same as being twenty-one going to twenty-four,
But mostly of all, it makes me feel that little bit older.
At work, I was treated like a king,
With a terrific card and an edible cake.
Then, as the afternoon came, so linked up all the drinks,
As best wishes from every individual, were told to me.
At home, when I arrived it was completely different,
The atmosphere was all right, though tense.
There is no hard feeling that I think of mum,
But arriving at ten to twelve on your twenty-fifth is dumb.
No eruptions of blustered and directed stupid phrases,
Should have been thrown at either of us.
Yes, I know that mum wanted it to be special,
Yes, in know that deep down inside, I did hurt you.
If you wanted you and me to share it: to be a special night,
You could have told me that somewhat before.
As the time we both share is so precious,
That I have got a goaled-life, in front of me.
Don’t take me wrong “mother”, for this is true,
But what you must remember is that I’ll never leave,
Nit in a mental or emotional point of view,
But only in a physical way, soon shall do.
No comments:
Post a Comment