Before Forty

I don’t fear dying. 

Not really. 

I fear reaching the end 

and realizing I never started.

I’m 37. 

Closer to 40 than I ever meant to be. 

Broke. 

Bruised. 

Built from choices I can’t undo 

and dreams I can’t afford to chase.

I’ve done things— 

real things. 

But the world shrugs, 

like silence is a verdict 

and struggle means failure.

Every year feels shorter. 

Like time’s picking up speed 

just to spite me. 

And the mirror— 

it doesn’t mock me, 

it just waits. 

As if even my reflection’s unsure 

if I’ll get where I’m going.

No trophies. 

No applause. 

No one keeping score but me. 

And I’m tired of pretending the game’s still fair.

There’s a shadow 

that follows me lately— 

not death, 

but something quieter. 

Like the ghost of the life I thought I’d live, 

haunting the one I actually am.

Still, 

I wake up. 

Still write. 

Still try. 

Still dream in broken pixels 

and spit truths no one asked for 

into the void.

Maybe I won’t make it to 40. 

Or maybe I’ll make it so loud 

the world has to notice before I go.

If I die, 

let it be mid-sentence. 

Still fighting, 

still flawed, 

but finally heard.