Middle age blues.
The mirror doesn’t lie does it seems,
Lines over the eyes, hair silvery gray,
Tired beyond belief,
Waking to a different ache each day,
Mulling over my life,
Taking stock of what I have achieved,
What I was going to do or didn’t,
The Ideals in which I believed.
The wife still looks good,
Powder puff and cream,
Domesticity is a fine art,
She still lives the dream.
Same job for a lifetime,
No exciting ventures to be had,
Same things on the same day,
Predictable, tiresome, and sad.
Lacking adventure and little drive,
Settled into a well rehearsed way,
Wondering how my mates seem so better off,
All divorced and, the field theirs to play.
Waistline has become a little full,
The good life has a price,
Red or white with the evening meal,
Safe, Boring, but very nice.
Humdrum days and quiet nights,
Out of place in a club,
Mowing the lawn on Sunday,
A few beers in the local pub.
Can’t do the gym no more,
The knees hurt like mad,
The wife wants the decorating done,
But that drives me mad.
Impatient and opinionated too,
Telling people what I say is right,
Got the blues real bad today,
But then I think, I’m all right.
Got what I worked for I guess,
A good wife, a house and loving kids too,
Maybe the mirror is just showing the surface,
But underneath there’s no need to be blue.
© Copyright 2016 nighthawk. All rights reserved.
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