Self-Made Gaol

Posted on Sep 28, 2012


He sits alone in his bedsit
Only a wall for his view
The TV reception on the blink
So the radio he does choose

He lives in filth and squalor
Dirt everywhere he looks
Teabags three days old on the side
Rotted and brown by dirty books

Food long out of date
Sits in cupboards full
Whilst the oven uncleaned in years
Cooks his food as he drinks his beers

Empty cans litter the floor
Along with ash from his smoking
Everywhere a mess you look
As his sits there coughing

Why is he like this you wonder?
It’s a long story to tell
Depression he has going years back
Hence living in this hell

Even the devil wouldn’t go inside
This poor soul long given up
No-one to help him even though he asks
Lately he’s starting to feel rough

Then one day he sadly dies
Unnoticed for two days it seems
People have tried to ring him
There he sits, playing to itself the TV

Was this a self-made gaol
That he lived in for many years?
Maybe, maybe not, who knows?
But he left this earth with many fears

This sad story is repeated everywhere
Many are in the same boat
Unwanted and unloved they feel
Lonely too, sadly self-imposed

The funeral attended by but a few
So-called friends don’t turn up
This poor man goes elsewhere
At sixty-two it wasn’t long enough

His ashes are left for his son to scatter
Who’s in shock but knew it would come
He saw his self-destruction many times
Saddens him, his only child who wants to run

But is the same happening to him?
Two years on as he struggles with life
He’s clean and more or less healthy
But like his father, from the past he cannot hide

Posted in: Poetry