Middle Aged…

Middle Aged…

I’ve been middle aged since I was eight,

but that’s a whole other poem.

~

I’m forty seven and one half,

middle aged and verging on dead.

~

The symptoms have never been stronger,

more than can be said of my mind.

~

I often forget where I’m going,

where I’ve been or how I got here.

~

No longer can I pee up the wall,

a trickle is the best I can do.

~

I spend longer standing and waiting,

than actually spending that penny.

~

I used to like drinking until sunrise,

now I’m in bed by half past nine.

~

When did a walk with the dog,

become preferable to hitting the bar.

~

My body aches in the morning,

I struggle to get out of bed.

~

It doesn’t get much better later,

it hurts to do the simplest of things.

~

I reflect on life all the time,

what I’ve done and how much I missed.

~

A standard mid life crisis,

or a checklist of failure to date.

~

There are some upsides however,

it’s acceptable to wear slippers all day.

~

You can blame your pesky arthritis,

or simply say shoes are for youths.

~

Buying clothes with elasticated waistbands,

is a mark of maturity and sense.

~

You don’t have to talk to new people,

unless they’re serving you food.

~

It’s easy to pour scorn on the young,

who’ve got all this nonsense to come.

~

We can patronise the old folks around us,

pretend that we feel their pain.

~

Spending the day on the sofa,

is a sensible way to refuel.

~

We can dance with the solitary aim,

of embarrassing the kids we raise.

~

A glorious morning snooze,

doesn’t spoil an afternoon nap.

~

So to round this all off,

to sum it all up.

~

I may be a shadow,

of my previous self.

~

But one things for sure,

beyond reasonable doubt.

~

I’m still a turnip…

😳

Do you know anyone who’s middle aged? Maybe they might like to read this.

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