Incomplete shitty poem, let me get it out of my head first, i'll fill the gaps later

Urban Seasons

So you're born in February
the shortest month of the year
the card where you were incy-wincy
to make fun of you being such a shortie.

with no snow to tell the seasons by
just the haze, humidity, maybe the sun
moving slowly through the sky
to which you'd timidly reply

"i defy you star!", from the plays you've read
or would like to, if not for Social Studies
or other subjects which you dread
yet the meter and rhyme prove

Past March then, of waiting, in another year

the constant anxiety, constant fear
of being labelled unsincere

which makes the poet board the vessel
of his imagination with great caution
and rig his mast with his big sail
and the risk of being caught by label(sued for libel)

An April where some had left
and they drank a lot to send them off
sailors to a distant sea
from an island of prosperity

the luxury pleases me, i'd love the park
we walked through, to catch the bus
months later, to board that bus again
easy memories come through the dark

which turn to head-gnashing and regret
'O have i missed such beauty?'
yet peaceful still, i sit on yet
so many people i haven't met.

A May comes by, or is it Shall?
What ought i do, what ought I not?
I'll wait, patient as I built my wall
while others choke at my lack of gall.

June is here, let's play footie!
no she's not just another name
Bet your money, bust the bookie
want to win big cannot be so hum-ji

July sits there equally pensive
on the wood-panelled class benches
eyes that look yet so evasive
yet perhaps, it's a look that i misgive

August, does it feel like your year has ended?
The rose withered, the eyes now glare
not knowing how to treat those you befriended
where's the power that i needed?

with the rest of the months yet to come
thirty, or thirty-one days? count your knuckles
then crush them on some stupid sum
to take your mind off your sinful

The years don't matter, nor the days or months
We dust them from our dark recesses
Things to tell the passage by
so life then wouldn't feel so dry