If only (a poem of regret)

I'm old, tired, and worn,
I look back on my life with scorn.
I think that maybe it is right,
That I should want to die tonight.
My past torments me year by year,
Then suddenly, it all seems clear:
The chances I have failed to take,
The friends that I have failed to make.
Then, through my old and tired head,
Come the words I've learned to dread:
"If only I had not done that,"
"If only I had finished that,"
"If only I had tried to find
That place on earth that was mine."
Then maybe it would not feel right,
That I should want to die tonight.

​Should you always tell the truth?
Should we be honest with the ones we love,
even if it might be mean or unkind?
How many times do we lie to be kind?
What's the tally, yours and mine?
How many white lies make a black?
Am I still allowed to say that?
It's not a biggie, but even so,
is anyone concerned to know?

People aren't aware of you anymore.
Old age—it's messed up, man.
You still feel so young inside.
How can you look so old?
Your best days are long gone.
You have to settle now for what?
Bland, dull days which mold into weeks, then months.
How can it be Christmas again already?
You wonder if you've got many more left.
Do you stay home and overeat?
Food's a comfort these days.
Okay, so I'm fat. Does anyone care anyway?
You know the answer before you even ask it.
How long after you're gone will people forget you?
Sooner than you think. Out of sight, out of mind. True enough."

Tomorrow
all the people say,
"Tomorrow things will be okay;
we'll then have the time we need
to rectify all sinful deeds.
Tomorrow there'll be no rich or poor;
tomorrow no one will want for more.
The rich will know the gift of giving;
the poor will share the gift of living."
The world wakes to a brand-new day,
and everywhere the people say,
"Tomorrow things will be okay...
Tomorrow is another day."