When I was sixteen I was fair haired, blue eyed, long legged, coltish - or so they told me. Old photographs confirm it. Other boys looked at me, but I read my books and kept to myself, when I was sixteen. When I was twenty-four I was full of myself, brimmed up with attitude - or so they told me. Old diaries confirm it. I was too impressed with my own ideals to recognize anyone else's reality, when I was twenty-four. When I was thirty-six I was tailored, groomed, and sleek. A force to be reckoned with - or so they told me. Old clippings confirm it. I had no time for messy entanglements I assured myself proudly, when I was thirty-six. When I was forty-eight  I felt the cold and the strain, and shrugged these off to keep pushing - better slow down, they told me. Old spreadsheets confirm it. It was hard to do everything myself, but I wouldn’t ask for help when I was forty-eight. When I was sixty-two the hostile takeover didn’t trouble me as much as the pain in my gut - six months, they told me. The films confirmed it. I wasn’t ready to give it up but they sent me home to die, when I was sixty-two. When I awaken every morning I count each passing day, and tally all my achievement - yet there’s no one to tell, and none to confirm it.     I smile when I get feedback. Click the button above and make me happy.   Back to My Poetry Page The Authors Haunt Author Directory The Authors Haunt Library The Authors Haunt Home

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