This poem reveals the discontent of the long-suffering. I’m sure we all feel this way, sometimes. Thanks for coming by to read.
Why is it, that the is that is
Is what it is, today?
Why is it, that the is that is
It is, it is so gray?
Why, tell me, must I scrape and bend
And play pretend for thee?
Why is it, while I’m at the end
Of my tether, you run free?
Why, all alone, scrubbing to the bone,
Must I fix this horrid mess?
Why me, just me, to the nth degree,
To my great unhappiness?
What once was so cooperative,
Inoperative, instead.
What once was handled by a group,
Falls on my stupid head.
Do you think that I alone should drink
From this well you’ve drained so dry?
While you retire, do my jobs expire?
Do I toil until I die?
And what of what I’ve always hoped?
What of my fondest dreams?
Do they fall by the wayside?
Even worse, hide in the seams?
Old age will never wait for us.
We’re aged, like or not.
So what’s next, on the plate for us?
Don’t like this dish I’ve got.
Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew
For a more complimentary assessment of years gone by, read Not So Long Ago.
The Present
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