It's a funny thing, getting older.  It's stressful, upsetting, unsettling, and full of unfortunate circumstances--and we HAVE to do it.  There is no "stay young" option, or “get out of jail free” card. 

As we get older, we take on more responsibilities.  Our health declines.  Our minds deteriorate.  Everything pretty much goes downhill.

We begin to spend a large percentage of our money not only on health care, but also on anti-aging products, vitamins, supplements, hair dye, etc. 

And it does not make any difference how much time, effort, and money we put into staying young, we grow older, every single day.  It's an incurable sickness of which we can merely ease the symptoms.

People always say "you have your whole life ahead of you", but what do they even know? Because if these people went by what they knew, and always told the truth, they would tell us to get shit done, FAST.

How much of our lives do we really even enjoy? Life is spent working. And working. And working.  To make money to pay the water bill.  The electric bill.  The cable bill. 

The rent.

The car insurance; the health insurance; the life insurance; the house insurance.

Grocery costs, the cost of day to day living.

All of these things add up to one thing--bankruptcy. 

But wait, do we not work so very hard to live good lives? Is that what a "good life" consists of? Paying the bills on time? Survival?

In five months, I will be turning 21.  It's almost like a death sentence though.  21 is an exciting birthday.  Everything that can be legal is now legal.

There is no longer any birthday to look forward to.  Each year birthdays become more and more dreadful.  There is no longer any excitement. You are just one year older, and that much closer to dying.

I love this age.  I love this time in my life.  I hate the thought of "growing up" because I hate the thought of spending my whole life held down by responsibility. 

When I started college, I had every intention of becoming a nurse.  The longer I thought about it, though, I realized I will never be able to live like that.  Among other things, a nine-to-five job that is the same on a routine basis seems so mundane and deadly to me. 

I don't want to hate growing older.  I want to love my life when I'm eighty-seven just as much as I love my life now. 

I may not be able to smooth out the wrinkles, keep my hair from turning gray, or maintain a fully functioning skeletal system for the rest of my life, but I can find happiness. 

I don’t want to waste my life away working to pay the bills.  I want to see the world; I want to change the world.  All of that cliché stuff. 

Changing the world, strangely enough, is the easy part.  I am a writer, and through my writing, I will evoke change.  But seeing the world…now that is a different sort of dilemma.  A monetary dilemma.

Except, why should money be an issue?  I only have one life to live.  There are no second chances—once I stop breathing, it’s over. 

I don’t know where this money will come from.  Ideally, from selling my writing.   Or pure luck.  I haven’t decided yet.

All I have decided is that I am not letting my life go to waste.

Grass

Long, thin blades

Protruding from the coffee-colored earth

Slice through the air

Like the cutting edge

Of a newly sharpened knife.

Reaching for the sky,

Higher, and higher still

Despite frequent attempts

To hinder nature’s growth.

Seemingly inconsequential

With little to no potential—

Yet vital to the survival

Of each and every one of us.

Daily we walk across the

Inch-high fields.

Never appreciating the beauty

Of this tiny forest.

Everlasting.

Through shades and cycles

Of life and death—

Never to be noticed as

The source of energy and vitality.

Andrew

If I had known

That was going to be

The last time I could see you,

I would have gotten up to say goodbye.

You left without saying anything—

So different from your usual exit—

And I just gave a head nod.

But then,

we thought there’d be a next time.

I can still remember the day it happened.

The phone call.

The silence.

Then two words.

Two small words that worked like poison.

“Andrew’s dead.”

In through my ears

And slowly spreading

Through every inch of my body.

The murderous voice

Said something about a truck.

Head injuries.

Driving too fast.

The details blurred to tragedy.

The night before we had made plans

For your birthday.

We hadn’t planned on a funeral.

                                                Realization

I hold my son

For what is most likely the last time.

He is not dying,

Just going away

 To live with strangers.

He looks up at me and

My heart breaks because

I feel like a failure.

Mothers are not supposed to leave their babies.