At birth, we are given an allotment…
A number of days unknown to spend…
And no control over the factors of our existence…
The color of our skin…
The amount of intelligence in our stupid little heads…
The family we are born into…
The state of the world when we are born…
And then we have to spend what we were given…
Wisely… Stupidly… Generously… Selfishly…
We do have a choice about what we do with what we were given…
And the rhyme scheme… Or lack of one…
And the rhythm… Or the lack of one…
And what the poem is meant to mean…
To look back upon…
With pride…
Or shame and horror…
When the last line is complete.
Catch a Falling Star 