Another year older

Another year older,

What the hell,

Do I have greys yet?

Can I preach to the crowd?

Do I become wise yet?

No! I hear her shout.

You are still but twenty- three.

Wise is not your age.

You should jump and jiggle,

giggle and wobble,

Not scowl down books and papers,

rubbing your forehead or

your back for the pains of your soul.

He stands in front of us,

She was born old and wise.

I wonder comment or compliment.

Do I look so sad?

Do I look so morbid,

Maybe my limp hair is too limp,

Or my bulky body to bendy,

Maybe the permanent scowl is there all the time,

Or maybe I don’t smile  a lot.

Lets face it,

Another Year closer to Not being Wise