Old

Its black under my nails,
Dirty.
I look down
And it's slack,
No elastic
Dropping quick.
Where's the washboard?
I ate, I ate, I ate.

Getting old really is a tragedy.
Everyday etches a new line
Every bite bloats my mannequin frame,
There's no mystery to it
Hair recedes.

Stupid cupid really needs to shoot me up
I like them fresh faced,

Virile and lively,
Old and ugly, my pages yellow,
Dog eared
The cover worn.

 

Maybe someone who collects antiques
Will snap me up
Fifty pence and
I'll sit on your shelf,
Dust me off at your leisure,
Finger my pages,
So full of life.

Reviews

[~angelalala~]

this is an interesting poem. i like the imagery "Dust me off at your leisure, Finger my pages, So full of life." something everyone can relate to. well written.