Gunfight At The Old Folks Home Poem by Andy Brookes

Scratching pens, sobbing sentimental thoughts, no not today I come out all guns blazing.
no so innocent but insouciance, guilty all; the cliff edge's not gilded but crumbling
a flock of sheep knowing their fate but pushed from the back tipping end over end
falling substrata, collapse incongruent imperiled.

not seeing peripheries, perpetually blinded, blind sided, sidelined.
how I wish it were different, not that it was different, that is different.
I hate the indifference, folk see grey hair and assume.
assume life is over, assume senility, assume, assume, assume.

I want to scream, its the same me inside.
the packaging maybe soiled and wrinkled from over use
from being picked overlike old fruit, slightly worse for wear,
but still in working order, mostly, that's what Viagra's for.

I'm not dead, yet, but I am buried under your assumptions
assertions, lumped with the tag elderly.

that I don't need love or sex or have desires or desire.
not that is worries me but it does condemn me
look I want to say, see me not the shop worn package,
I'm still human if somewhat diminished.
certainly not past my sell by date, vintage and preowned though I am.

after all folk marvel at the Acropolis its broken stones
chipped statuary, how marvelous they cry!
but a chipped human is consigned to the bin marked decrepit, or faulty goods.