Up Coming Poem by Paul Brookes

I am 67 and am fed up putting up with putting up,
many small things make me fed up with putting up.
not being able to be me,
not able to hold a lover's hand in public,
to show all the small affections everyone has a right to,
except me, except us.

I'm fed up with being thought of as intrinsically disordered.
I'm fed up of being reduced to a sex act.
I'm fed up with this cross, having this cross to bear,
not by choice but a cross given to me
and I'm getting cross of carrying it for you.

I'm fed up of being the butt of your jokes;
of being your whipping boy.
I'm tired of being tired,
exhausted at being exhausted.

I am 67 and am fed up putting up with putting up
so I'm not putting up with putting up anymore.