WHEN I was twenty-three, and full with pride,
I took my pleasures casually and ran
Off to the next adventure, or romance,
And thought I was a special sort of man.
I TRAVELED where I wanted, stayed as long
As I thought wise, given I didn’t think;
I tried on new ways I could fool the girls,
Or drowned myself in drink on stinkin’ drink.
YES, I was twenty-three, a magic age,
And handsome as I ever was, I guess:
My eyes were glazed with arrogance, and I
Left others to clean up each brand new mess.
JUST two years later, pills clutched in my fists
The blood dripped down from where I’d slit my wrists
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Powerful. Sad. Too often true.