I'm Too Old To Be Unhappy

Sadness is for the young, I say:
I'm too old to be unhappy.

I can't write about
the bitter vitriol of despair
     running through my tortured veins
     like viscous, clotted blood
or the Shadow-Lover, Death's Minion,
     idly playing on the heart-strings
     of my delicate lute-soul;

I just can't muster the angst anymore
to write good miserable poetry.

I have to give it up and say,
Sorrow is for the young:
I'm too old to be unhappy.

I see it like this--

I'm the butt of some great cosmic joke:
Life's standing in the alley
and It just kicked me in the ass
while I tried to tie my shoelaces.

A younger person might writhe
and rage, spit on Fate's brow
and curse the day she was born
to such misery,

But geez, I'm too old to be upset
and I'm the first to roll over
and laugh right along with Life

In fact, I like to get up
and shake my rear in Life's direction
and say,

"No, please, KICK ME IN THE ASS."

But when the humor turns nasty and
Life's looming over me like a bully,

Why, I lie silent and still.

I used up all those florid clichˇs
when I was young; the pain belies
description, or even the desire to
try and name it.

But really, sadness is for the young:
I'm too old to be unhappy.

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