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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=401457" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Writ On The Eve Of My 32nd Birthday</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I am 32 years old <br>and finally I look my age, if not more. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face? <br>It seems fatter. And my hair, <br>it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big? <br>The lips are the same. <br>And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time. <br>32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts, <br>but there’s lots of time. <br>I don’t act silly any more. <br>And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends: <br>“You’ve changed. You used to be so crazy so great.” <br>They are not comfortable with me when I’m serious. <br>Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall. <br>32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people; <br>was great for some, terrible for others. <br>I remember my 31st year when I cried: <br>“To think I may have to go another 31 years!” <br>I don’t feel that way this birthday. <br>I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library <br>in a deep chair by a fireplace. <br>Another year in which I stole nothing. <br>8 years now and haven’t stole a thing! <br>I stopped stealing! <br>But I still lie at times, <br>and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes <br>to asking for money. <br>32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad wonderful <br>books of poetry <br>—the world owes me a million dollars. <br>I think I had a pretty weird 32 years. <br>And it weren’t up to me, none of it. <br>No choice of two roads; if there were, <br>I don’t doubt I’d have chosen both. <br>I like to think chance had it I play the bell. <br>The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration: <br>“I’m good example there’s such a thing as called soul.” <br>I love poetry because it makes me love <br>and presents me life. <br>And of all the fires that die in me, <br>there’s one burns like the sun; <br>it might not make day my personal life, <br>my association with people, <br>or my behavior toward society, <br>but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Gregory+Corso">Gregory Corso</a><div class=q>
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I am 32 years old 
and finally I look my age, if not more. 

Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face? 
It seems fatter. And my hair, 
it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big? 
The lips are the same..."></div>
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