Getting Old Can Be So Unkind
I'm fifty-seven going on ninety-nine,
My joints are falling apart,
The eyesight I can no longer align,
I'm missing a beat in my heart.
I can't bend over to pick things up,
Because of the pain in my back,
I can't hold the kettle to fill up my cup,
My joints are all under attack.
I get breathless walking half a yard,
It's a struggle to get out of my chair,
My pain has left me mentally scarred,
As has my thinning hair.
I can't even chew my food any more,
They'll soon be buying me a wreath,
Eating anything has become such a chore,
For I've lost all my bloody teeth.
Who are you talking to I hear them say,
There's nobody here but you,
My secret companions I would never betray,
To them I will always be true.
Where I've put things I'll never know,
Someone always moves them elsewhere,
Whoever does it never seems to show,
But I know that I put them in there.
I can't remember the things I said,
Or what I was supposed to do,
My children say I am off my head,
But I know that cannot be true.
I have my companions yes they are real,
But still they refuse to believe,
If only they knew how that makes me feel,
I swear I would never deceive.
When I visit the loo I'm always caught short,
I always end up in a mess,
My lifeless body I have to contort,
The toilet just gives me such stress.
This cocktail of drugs makes me rattle,
But I need them to relieve all my pain,
I'm fighting a long losing battle,
Which is driving me totally insane.
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poem by Bri Mar
Added by Poetry Lover
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