This old man.
Sitting in a cell on his grown ass,
Says don’t ask bout happiness
you know how that shit don’t last.
Says he built it like lego.
But now he just sits back on his
saggy gonads and watch it collapse.
It’s code red.
Don’t need a pastor to preach it from behind a pulpit.
A destruction so out of this world
when he looks at the whole map.
Silly gramps, thinkin he’s in continents
when in fact its just his piss he can’t hold back.
Watched his dreams go now he’s back at it
Warmin up to a blanket of bad habits.
Says “it wasn’t planned, damn it.”
Its not like he sits around
scribbling plots with his stupid pad and ink.
But that doesn’t stop the assholes
from calling him a pen addict.
Nothing collected, just battle scars,
surrounded by empty jars with the hope
this time of writing a better epitaph.
And for a second there he starts to panic.
He’s behind these four walls,
dreamin of three meals
and the females and before long,
He looks back at his life
thinking where has it all gone?
Thinkin bout his actions and the consequences its brought on.
A veteran afraid of getting irrelevant,
sleeping in trenches cos his city’s war torn.
But its not much of a life is it?
Always wondering when they gonna drop bombs?
Always looking for the enemy
but toying with the hope that they’re long gone.
Its a disease that he despises
but for some reason he decides to hold on.
His paramore this paradox, so long.
This old man.
2 Dec 22 Jon Lau
ILLiteratepoet 