Monday, December 2, 2013



I wish I was good enough for poetry slam;
delicious, refined, like strawberry jam.
Because if I was, I'd perform one for you,
and it'll be the one you always turn to.

But I'm afraid I'm not that good yet.
You see, I'm like a lighter without a cigarette.
Instead though, I'm going to write this down,
all the way from the city people refer to as London town.


When you were born, I asked you not to grow up, but you did,
until eventually, I said hello to the adult, goodbye to the kid.
You were a beautiful baby, but even more so now than before;
your heart (especially) points to a path that goes straight to heaven's door.

And I know you don't really like to celebrate the date of your birth,
but some of us want to celebrate the day you came into this earth.
I for one, without you, would most probably feel lost,
like a snowman who's lived his life waiting to defrost.

You are everything I always wanted you to be,
just like that acoustic song I listen to on my mp3.
For you, I want every mountain to be moved,
and every last shred of sorrow, removed.

For you, I want the sea to smile at the sun,
and if there's sand beneath your feet, I want you to run.
Because this is your life and you deserve to live it,
so if fear keeps getting in the way, I want you to kick it.

Remember that happiness doesn't have to come at a price,
and that, for now, will be my last piece of advice.
Welcome to the beautifully complicated age of twenty.
And just in case you have forgotten – I love you, plenty plenty.

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