After 25, you wrote,
life is not worth living.
The parties are over,
and all that is to be
done is done, or has
been done. The men
worth having, you have
had, and that done in
great number, not
wanting anything
to be left out. You
remember that first
one, the first to take
you into the bed, and
do whatever it is that
seems worth doing.
The *****, the drugs,
the music, the ***, the
whole pitiful lie of
evolution ****** in
then spat out. Books
read and re-read, and
poets listened to, and
writers with their side
of the truth not yours.
You have written all
that is worth writing.
Have put away your
pens and modern writing
machines. You have
written all your goodbyes
and sent them off. Just
the way out now, you
muse, the way out
and down that dark
corridor to non-being
or maybe that one bright
light that you are seeing.