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Don’t tell me mama
When it’s your birthday
Don’t tell me mama,
When it’s your birthday.
It should be as clear as the morning walk of the sun,
It carries away.
All the things that you wanted to be,
Are not yet, carried away with the wind.
Many things are to be carried, mainly on..
But I wish to drop this heavy rock of youth, judging.
Carried easier, a love you are born or give birth to,
But the weight has nothing to do with emotion or does it?
A physician fist-fights politely, an Islamic activist just to mention,
You are wrong and I am right.
Mother let’s turn off the tunnelvision.
I see years of time, packed into a single decision.
It’s prohibited to type-down certainties and copy-paste casualties,
just to reconfirm the meaning of life. You shell find out.
Yourself, perhaps. No warranty.
The bridge is to be built between last year and this year.
Please, I beg you please.
I must not scribble a shopping list of emotions to match cheap compliments.
