Looking Back

I can't say, “in my day,” because I had no day.
I've plodded, staggered, crawled, in fact,
Too often since I found the means to get out
Of my parents' house. I drifted, drugged
Or drunk, or both, through jobs and schools
For years before I hit upon what I could
Credibly proclaim was a career, and I
Abandoned it not too long after, going back
To doing moron jobs and staying home
To raise four children, all of whom (surprisingly)
Are fine. And now, I'm old. I'm on the dole,
And working for the exercise. I have a little
Girl here a couple times a week, and I write
Poetry which goes unread. It doesn't see
The light of day, and not one well-known
Critic says it's fine. I haven't won a prize.
I have a muse. She's far from here, and apt
To be that way forever. My heartbeat is
Artificial, set by a machine. My right hip
Is made of metal. My life seems to rest upon
Duloxetine and daily naps, the sort of flimsy
Underpinnings which would lead a layabout
To ask, “Did I once have a day?”

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 95 times
Written on 2019-02-14 at 01:08

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Your poetry is not unread. And I am sure you had one hell of a day.

The tone is quite despondent, full of existential crisis, which reminds me of the lives that, without our notice or control, go on and on, bereft of winning 'a prize' or writing poetry that goes 'unread.' Aren't we but puppets in the hands of fate, or God (if it exists)?