The Eyes of Age
I’m looking through the eyes of an aged man
who has lived his life the best he can.
I’ve made countless mistakes before arriving here,
suffered broken hearts and shed many a tear.
And now I see young men doing exactly the same,
making similar mistakes and suffering pain.
If only they would ask, I could save so much grief,
but their silly pride is beyond belief.
Most young people see me as a burned out old man;
but I can see as a youngster can.
I look at middle aged men and consider myself the same,
but I forget about my looks, my shape, and ageing pain.
When I see a young lady, who takes the time to smile at me,
I straighten my back, breathe in, and smile anxiously,
but then I realise I’m not a young man, so dream on old fool,
she’s only being polite and you’re beginning to drool.
Some days I’m full of energy and think I could sprint for a mile,
but after a ten paces I have to rest and catch my breath for a while.
When you become old it’s a fact that your eyes and body don’t unite,
and your memory and mind are held up by the brains delay to ignite.
I’m not ready for aging and I don’t want to get used to being old,
okay, so I’ve had a new hip, a new knee, and I’m slightly bald,
maybe I am a bit deaf, and my eyesight isn’t what it should be,
oh yes, I almost forgot - I have a lousy memory.
poem by Orlando Belo
Added by Poetry Lover
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