"is there a certain number of regrets a beatle has when he dies?"

a sick existentialist joke

i turned 20 yesterday,
and i want a smoke,
but hi-lite decay
creeps around my throat
 
there's a certain rustle,
beneath trachea-rooted thistle
each breath ripping, each inhale futile-
it hurts to smoke let alone breathe
 

those weeds,

long and winding through my lungs

i see the road to the door

but first i need a smoke

 
i'm not yet half the man i'm going to be.

 

my butane lighter

running empty, sputtering nonflame 

the hacking and retching of
lungs and chest, my sparkless enlightening 
 
mccartney lives with regrets-
more than lennon did when he died,

and he's still measured by lennon's ghost.

i guess im not smoking tonight.

Reviews

[.]

Everett's 20th Birthday Poem
The state of believing in the goodness of a person you don't know
a slight intoxication and a sharp wisdom
maybe I'm wrong
but my friend is worth to believe

my inner voice tells me that
every year of his life will be the best
and I send him an eternal life
which includes writing poems
that will satisfy his heart
and I hope it's always filled with happiness, love and health.

he's worth breaking my those rules "I won't write a poem again"


I will write a poem again, but that's not the point! And happy birthday my internet twin!

[Lara]

This piece, Everett, has a clever pun to twist the tail, which flares that smouldering feeling caught in the throat - from beginning to end.
Some well considered word choice here, with the allusion to "long & winding road" (by the bugs) very nicely employed.