ON AND OFF DAYS, with peaks of leaks
Some days I have an off-day
Not many days are on.
Consistent days I have to say.
Are well and truly gone.
Before I get up from my bed.
I have to exercise.
To wake my muscles from the dead.
Or was that my own demise.
Did I awake from last night’s dream.
Or am I residing there.
Nothing knocks one’s self-esteem.
Like living a nightmare.
Long lost now that peace of mind.
I had my life throughout.
Age is inclined to be unkind.
With nowt to shout about.
Arthritic pain in every joint.
Can make a teardrop come.
Sometimes I wonder what’s the point.
When all is said and done.
I leak and stream from everywhere.
It never seems to stop.
I know it’s only wear and tear.
From old age and the op’s.
I leak from every orifice.
The smell can overwhelm.
With no control on shit or piss.
Within this aging realm.
Ears ooze wax and nose flows snot.
And I regurgitate.
Then I tend to sweat a lot.
What a freaky and leaky state.
Bleeding nose and stoma too.
And from my bum as well.
To speak these things is still taboo.
Like leper rings a bell.
From my stoma faeces come.
Plus mucus and some pain.
More mucus flushes from my bum.
Like frog’s spawn in the rain.
Once I stopped to ask a plumber.
To stop my leaks and smell.
He agreed it was a bummer.
For he had these leaks as well.
Sometimes I think it can’t get worse.
Not one thing is right.
I sit here making rhyming verse.
Because it helps me fight.
When my fighting’s over.
Don’t put me in the ground.
My life has not been clover.
I feel that I’ve been drowned.
So put me in the ocean.
The wide and clear blue sea.
I have this fancy notion.
The wetness will suit me.
The sea would make me happy.
The sea could make me glad.
I would not feel so crappy.
I would not feel so sad.
I want to feel the freedom.
That flows with every wave.
A flotsam, jetsam, kingdom.
Will be my watery grave.
For water ought to be the theme.
Of epitaph and score.
My nightmare turns into a dream.
Where I will leak no more.
B. Withers 2011
