False Friend, Abandoned Poem by Neil Crawford

I have given up on my heart
that device has been left
to its own devices.

What good did it ever do me? .
It simply lead me down dead ends
and left me whimpering in the dark.

It helped to pump my head
full of romantic nonsense
and idealistic twaddle.

Consequently I was isolated by ideas,
made weird by soap box
tub thumpery.

Cut off from the hedonistic throng,
I turned my anger on myself,
setting up a poison aura.

I mean all levels of desertion here,
emotional and physical.The former will
be easy, given my masculinity.

The latter will be tougher,
surrounded as I am by the rampant
exercise culture.

But I would rather let it run to ruin
than allow the 'Big C' time
to consume alive me from the inside.

When I would crumble like an empty husk,
choking on the memoried dust,
with one last tap from hurtful life.