Success

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
Personal virtue stated as truth. AABB rhyme scheme and written in Iambic Pentameter

Submitted: June 29, 2016

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Submitted: June 29, 2016

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Success

 

Success. The mere word I find disgusting,

Almost as empty as ‘tis condemning.

Provoking images of massive wealth,

Of a good job, nice car, and of good health.

 

But what of those who live in poverty?

Due to no fault of their own, certainly.

Or those who only want a simpler life?

One without the agony, pain, and strife.

 

Does an empty wallet, home, or garage,

Have to lead to some filthy, gross mirage,

Of a homeless man in a cardboard box?

Why must we think “Oh, having money rocks”?

 

Why can’t we grasp the concept that, maybe,

There is more to success than just money?

Such as fam’ly, acquaintances, or friends?

Vaults of mem’ries that seem to have no ends?

 

And what of friendship, its bond eternal?

All its feelings, inner and external?

To many, they don’t mean a goddamned thing,

When compared to a shining, golden ring.

 

I find the idea preposterous,

That one can claim to be and live prosp’rous,

When every night he lays ‘wake in bed,

Nearing forty-five, and still never wed.

 

Without any children to bear his name;

With wealth being his only call to fame.

In his garage, a shiny new red car,

In which he drives ev’ry night to the bar.


 

Where he raises glass and yells “Drinks on me!”

Then his “friends” give toast with their martini,

Down the drink, and ask for another two,

The reply: “Hell yeah, I always come through!”

 

Then ev’ry friend will leave, drunk off their mind.

And once more, at the bar’s close, he will find,

A revolutionary conclusion:

His “success” had been but an illusion.

 

Kicked out, he stumbles into his Lambo,

Trying an’thing to drown out his sorrow.

Swerving, vodka in hand, going one-ten,

He struggles to make it home once again.

 

Tears blend with liquor, running down his face.

His sole thought becomes finishing the race.

The tree comes up so fast, missed between drinks.

And his whole life flashes in just two blinks.

 

His thoughts drift to his former wife, Luanne.

He wonders if she’ll even even give a damn.

And then he thinks of the son he left, Bill.

Wonders if he will come to read his will.

 

Then all the thoughts come crashing to an end,

As his very final breath he does spend.

And all that he wondered, all of his fears,

Come to be true; no-one shed any tears.

 

The names are fake, but the story is real;

When wealth is held as one’s only ideal,

And believed to be the key to success,

Well, then I hope that in peace they may rest.


© Copyright 2017 Crozby. All rights reserved.

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