Robert Lowe – This Year, Next Years, Sometime, Never


Being born, I howl;
In infancy, I cry.

Childhood is now a dream.

Going to school, I fear.
First love was misery.

Being neither boy nor girl.

Humiliation and pain;
Growing up alone –

No word for whom you are –

To an adulthood of shame,
And hopes that lacked a name.

Your existence felt like crime.

Yet somehow carrying on;
Trying so hard to have fun.

If the past could be undone?

Now approaching middle-age,
Each decade seems like a page –

A charge sheet of mistakes.

And some you harmed are gone;
So, harm, it seems has won.

You lived, but for whose sake?

Yet, though living was distressing,
It is less so, I know, than the dying.

There is no truth in lying.

But denying whom you are
In the world will get you far… sometimes.

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