My knee is worn,
the grease is gone.
Just mush.
The cartilage
now marshmallow fluff.

Carpal tunnel.
My fingers numb
with a terrible tingle.
Haven’t opened
a jar,
a door,
a bottle of beer,
in weeks.

Plantar heal
stops me
in my tracks.
A day,
a week,
or more,
before
stretching releases
the ligaments
and I can walk again.

Backbone collapses and shrivels,
pinching nerves
until I’m throbbing.
My neck,
my hip,
my feet.
From top to bottom,
I cringe.

And yet,
each day,
I get up,
plant my feet on the ground,
move one foot,
then the other.

Pain
is now like breathing.
Automatic.
I ignore it
much more
than I would have thought
possible.

So piss on you world!
I will go on,
I will not go down.
I’ll be here until the end,
but like I said,
“Piss on you!”


(I feel I need to explain this poem, otherwise it just comes at you as a huge downer that reeks of self-pity. Doing this in context with poetry is probably considered to be unseemly, improper, or incongruous, and maybe even illegal, but as I have said before, “My blog, my rules.” Only this time, it is “My poetry, my prerogative.”

As you age, things are going to wear out. It’s like a Subaru. At some time that nearly 20-year old vehicle (I know, I have this vehicle) is going to break down and things are going to need to be repaired. And like any Subaru with more than 100,000 miles on it, if you have the money or unless it blows an engine, you can pretty much get it up and running again. But it will never be new again. It will still shudder on bumpy roads, won’t have the acceleration needed to pass on hills, and the damn check engine light will always be burning bright.

Like that Subaru, we will all see our body gradually wear out and we will never again be able to do things we did in our youth. You can’t ignore this slow deterioration nor will you ever be able to accept it. For me, this poem is about those days when I get up in the morning and I’m still tired because I didn’t sleep, the arthritis in my knees is acting up, and the pinched nerve in my back is excruciating.

And frankly, I want to whine and carp about it. Problem is no one wants to listen. No one should have to listen. So just let me write my poem about how I feel. Let me bitch and moan. Let me get it out and tomorrow, after I get it fixed or learn to live with it, I’ll feel better—I’ll smile again. Right now, I can’t walk to the mailbox, but tomorrow the grand kids will be here and the pain will magically disappear! But for just today, “Piss on you world.”)

skull white tulip

Piss on You!

One thought on “Piss on You!

  • May 9, 2015 at 10:33
    Permalink

    totally understand how you feel, you old geez!!!!

    Reply

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