Different letters.
Different years.
Same place.
Same tears.
But I do not hurt.
I don't get cold.
I do not feel.
It's getting old.
Special day.
Still the same.
"Thank you,
Glad you came".
Give me nothing.
Or give me joy.
Supposed to be man.
But still a boy.
Eighteen winters.
Under the same sky.
I try to feel.
I really try.
As always.
It won't be.
A happy birthday.
To me.
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