I’M NOT READY FOR THIS LIFE
It’s 12 more years before I get to forty…
And then I can become a fool forever.
But fool I was,
And fool I am for as long as I breathe,
And for as long as I’ve sinned.
And so I wonder why they say these things —
A FOOL AT FORTY IS A FOOL FOREVER
So I repeat these words in my sleep,
And I put them in my lyrics,
For the songs that society has forced me to sing…
Over and over, and so, it is my belief
It has been incorporated into my being.
And though I want to desist,
I know that the men who set these laws won’t be pleased.
It’s a dozen more years before I get to forty,
And all my follies,
Long and hollow,
May yet find purpose,
Fulfilling the destiny written for me.
For when my peers partied and danced,
I sat in the dark,
Seeking refuge in its tender arms.
And though it felt sad,
It still felt better than wanting to be a part
Or trying to play a part
And now that life is at its threshold,
I think I missed out
Or I’m missing out on a lot of things —
Not necessarily bad or good,
Not necessarily enjoyable or despicable,
Just the things that every other person was doing,
And I have become
The ever silent audience to their awkward plays.
It’s a hundred and forty-four months before I turn forty.
When my hair starts turning gray,
And this gives me a semblance of wisdom,
I shall do my best to remember that — EVEN FOOLS GROW OLD.
So I won’t use my “ancienneté”
As an influencer in debates.
And even though my mates are laced up in this cold weather,
I really cannot be bothered,
Because you can’t love on an empty stomach.
So I spend these days of solitude in the pursuit of daily bread,
Or so I deceive myself.
If 40 comes when I haven’t yet found love,
What I have might be enough
To trod on and on and on
Until when and where the journey stops.
It’s 12 anna until I am forty.
If I’m lucky, I will be a daddy,
Hopefully not a zaddy to these Gen Z baddies.
Just a fatherly figure to XX chromosomes from my wifey.
But before the years burn like candle wax,
And my life starts flickering like a fading wick,
I must find my place in these desolate streets
That hold no sympathy for my broken pieces,
And do not RSVP — my pity parties.
So I fear that if I get to 40 without accomplishment,
I’ll be in a loop of remorse and resentment.
Or do I really care about all these things?
Because normal will always be boring.
It’s 12 more years before I get to forty…
Then I will be unapologetically expressive with my poetry.
But suddenly, I realize
I’m not ready for this life.
As I stumble, fumble, and crumble,
I know I’m still unripe,
Not yet prepared to navigate its vice
Without my mother’s guiding light.
But if I keep failing,
Surely, by the journey’s end,
I’ll unearth the wisdom I seek.
And maybe I shall be bold and loud
About the things that I hold to heart,
And then I shall find my path…
Or maybe I won’t…
But then it’d be certain for sure
That I’m not ready for this life.
And why should I be —
When I could simply create mine?
