Below is the poem entitled This is The End Ode to Jim Morrison which was written by poet
Chaifetz. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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Sanity on Colonial Road no longer exists.
The endless spiral downward still persists.
Friends have been lost, no longer exist.
Life is strange, wipe me off the list.
Have no wife, no kids, no job.
And yes, I live the life of a slob.
Feel like I’m hiding from the mob.
Give them time, they’ll do their job.
61 and obsolete, too old it seems to compete.
61 and without a dime, got too old before my time.
61 and life’s past me by, happened quick, sigh.
61 never thought my life would be a lie.
Where are the grandchildren to make me smile?
Where are the days I can relax in style?
What kind of fool have I be in life?
Why do I have to endure this strife?
If it were cancer or heart disease
Or some other health issue if you please.
Then I could understand what I’ve been dealt.
And try to keep living, not be willing to melt.
I once had a life, a business, a dream.
I woke every day with a full head of steam.
But that business, that dream has faded away.
And I have not replaced it, have not had my say.
I keep trying to reinvent myself.
As I’ve been told it’s that or all else.
I’ve been at it for the last two years.
And my reward, nothing but tears.
Perhaps I’ve had it too easy from the very start.
Inherited a business, my father’s death was a part.
Did all I could for almost ten years.
Then closed the doors, but had no fears.
Started a new one, way back in ‘86.
From the beginning, I knew it would stick.
Lived a good life, not rich but no worries.
Until it nosedived and gave me the sorries.
When you’re 61 without a dime to your name.
It’s hard to look back and feel the same.
For almost forty years I lived the dream.
Now all is lost, I do nothing but scream.
Oh, I send resumes to all the employers out there.
Not one reply in two years if your dare.
Unless you want to sell credit card machines.
There’s no work for you, you ain’t living the dream.
I’ve had plenty of good counsel and lots of advice.
Not a single thing in two years has been able to suffice.
I think of the gun virtually every single day.
Get over this misery, say goodbye and good day.
What you say, don’t ever give up?
What about George Eastman or Ernest Hemingway?
Or Hunter S. Thompson from Rolling Stone by the way.
You think my problems pale by the way.
I tire each morning facing my painful non rewarding life.
I hate the world for not recognizing my strife.
I have so much more to give to this world.
But if no one can see it, let the flags be unfurled.