I write these words I cannot say
The meaning, all a story
I have seen some better days
My vision now runs blurry
Yes these wrinkles line my face
My grandchildren don't understand
That once their Nana had everything
And now she's old, and bland
Now my skin's rough and spotty
I used to paint my face so nice
I can't stand the look of my body
Every bag, and every crease
I'd break every feeble bone I've left
To get back the youth I've lost
I'd lose every tooth all over again
For a minute back on life's clock
But I cannot go back in time
No matter how much I cry
So instead I write these lines
And watch my body slowly die
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoesíaA poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language. These are generally morbid poems for people who are generally morbid, or maybe just taking a small step into the shadow realm. This is a trigger zone. I don't own t...
