I can, only in my youth, lament

I can, only in my youth, lament the slowness of the years.

I can, only in my youth, regret

adulthood growing near.

How hard is it to understand

that sand continues flowing,

and that the loss of innocence

shows no symptom of slowing.

Scarcely can I comprehend what

past my eighteenth lies;

How I’ll mourn, and how I dread

the day my parents die.

Greatly cherished memories

grow further by the day;

most notably the moment I

accepted I was gay.

First it’ll be a month since that,

the next time it’ll be two;

then it’ll be a full decade

completely behind you.

Often I feel proud of just how

far that I have come,

but wonder if it’ll matter once

I’m buried, dead and gone.

I recall the bygone days

I liked to play with toys.

But now I cannot stand to be

a little girl or boy.

Soon I’ll have to leave this stage

of fantasies and fears,

the friends and hopes that symbolize

these fleeting teenage years.

There'll be a time when I’ll blow out

the last candle I will.

And after that, the birthday gifts

will all plummet to nil.

Then I’ll be a massive fool

to write a Christmas list,

it’ll be all my own duty

to work, and buy my gifts.

I wonder if I still will want

a lovely house and wife.

I wonder if I’m damned to live

a greatly troubled life.

I wonder if I really know

the person that I am;

I wonder if to find that out

is something that I can.