Dancing Among Hyphens

Everyone ages –

If you’re breathing,

you’ve already collected

some minutes rushing

toward years.

Time passes –

I limp walk into

another birthday,

hair turning whiter,

and attitude growing louder.

There’s a limit –

on how far I’ll go,

and how much I’ll take,

when wisdom has more rings

than the twig I planted at eighteen.

I’m there –

The place where patience

is thin, time is short, and

people pleasing is a dance

I no longer wish to attend.

NaPoWriMo Day 9

The Sound of Ink