I was born, I hate this part
Being someone new
Being torn, seeing someone who died
As you grew
Growing older is killing a child
Who laughed and smiled
At anything
Growing colder and less and less wild
And learning to say

I was young, then not so young
Scary either way
One more rung down that black ladder
Every day
One more floor
Down the elevator
To oblivion, what fun

But the singularly awful one
Is being born

Copyright: ROUGH TRADE PUBLISHING
Writer(s): Stephin Raymond Merritt