I think the worst part of growing up is always being able to see the end.
Not The End, the big end, but the little ends.
The end of school, the end of a relationship, the end of a job,
The end of the time friends can stay together,
The end of those long nights with tacos and games and laughter and companionship and life.
The days of everything are numbered.
And I’ve always hated math.
Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to cut it off myself.
Not like The End, the big end.
Never like that.
But end all the little ends at once and get them over with,
Before the loss has a chance to set in.
Sometimes I plan it out, the way to end the little things,
The places I could go instead,
Places with all-new companions, all-new relationships, and all-new jobs.
Nothing but all-new beginnings,
Where the ends are still far away.
But I’ve never been good at ending anything.
And the days are numbered anyway.
So I hold back and watch and wait and try to ignore the ends,
The little ends, catching up with me,
One after another,
Shutting doors and opening windows without my consent,
When all I want is for things to stay the same.
I don’t really do poetry. I don't even know if this counts. I’m not interested in working on it as long as I’d need to write anything decent, and I certainly don’t try to publish my trash.
But sometimes I just get in a mood.