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.