I was once young,

photo by hungrybison



A clean slate,

no regrets,

no mistakes,

no incriminating past,

no addictions,

no hang ups,

no compulsions,

no disorders,

nothing but promise.

Made of blood and bone,

skin and hair,

and innocence.

In possession of a soul,

a spirit,

a bright future,

all that is human, when you’re young.

I hate to tell you this,

but by the time you’re fifty,

you grow up, you mature.

And if you breath, eat and sleep,

amongst assholes,

for all those years,

you’re most likely,

to become an asshole.

And if you’re not careful,

you’ll wind up selling your soul,

for booze,






Like a whore on the streets,

you sell yourself.

And if some asshole buys,

well, you’re considered successful.

You’ll make money,

you’ll have the respect of others,

but not yourself.

When you’re fifty,

you’ll remember that you once had,


a spirt,

a bright future,

a soul.

That you were all that is human.

That you were once young.

And because of the assholes,

you won’t even know where it all went wrong.

All you will know is that you’re fifty,

and somehow,

a fifty year old asshole.


1 Comment

Filed under creative writing, micro stories, original writing, poem

One response to “Fifty

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