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To the Me Who Is Getting Old

My senses are getting dull. My vision has distorted over the years.

Perhaps my age is catching up to me.

I don't want to see myself go through the changes.

To the me who is getting old? Will I be alright with the changes happening to me?

I may be young today, but I may not be young tomorrow.

Am I getting old?

Will I forget my whole existence?

Will my hair turn grey?

Will my children be with me until I die?

Will everything change?

Yet my sorrows don't have an end.

It is the acceptance of my hair turning grey that makes it more miserable than the silence that creeps in the corner.

Said the woman who seeks her own acceptance from the world.

My skin has turned pale. Yet I am not sad about the gain.

My memories have gaps now. Yet I am not sad.

It's the acceptance of old age. That I have yet to confirm from my end.

Yet my sorrows don't have an end.

It is the acceptance of my hair turning grey that makes it more miserable than the silence that creeps in the corner.

Said the woman who seeks her own acceptance from the world.

My senses are getting dull. My vision has distorted over the years.

Perhaps my age is catching up to me.

I don't want to see myself go through the changes.

To the me who is getting old? Will I be alright with the changes happening to me?

I may be young today, but I may not be young tomorrow.

Am I getting old?

May be I am

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