we are all strangers
in a deceitful world of sin
until we find the one
but most of us never do
find the one
and so we keep looking
crawling in and out of beds
like a baby looking for its mother
then we settle for something we
do not want
and spend years being miserable
and the kids grow up
and hate us for torturing them
with our unhappiness
and she leaves you for a younger man
and there goes the house
the car
and half your bank account
while another man sleeps in your bed
you hit the bars trying to forget
but all you become is an alcoholic
sitting in a smoke-filled room
of incompetence
and the whores take advantage of you
spending the last of your money
as you hand it over
for a piece of pussy
you really do not want
then you get a little older
and the years tear at you
like the face on a paper mache' doll
you give it all up
and fall into a depression
and somewhere in the world
is a woman of compassion and love
looking for the same thing
buy a connection is never made
then you die
and are buried in a shallow grave
that no one ever visits
and it is over
and the one
escapes you..
Ken Riccio original poems (c)
