Slowly, he sunk to the ground
His legs giving way in the mud
He tried and tried to get back up
But he was stuck there now
—- it did no good.

A perfect metaphor of his real life
Where he’d slowly fallen down
He’d done his best but it wasn’t enough
For he never succeeded
—-he viewed life through a frown.

And here he was, stuck as never before
Half way there, stuck, and not knowing
Should he pull himself out and carry on
Or should he give up and fall back
— and leave self-pity growing.

It comes to us all at some withering point
We get hurled to ground by a sense of disgust
The world then is no longer our oyster
As we reel from mistakes
—- in a life filled with distrust.

And at this crossroads we find ourselves
Will we crumble where others may thrive
Do we possess the courage it takes
To man up and gain
—- a chance to survive.

©Joe Wilson – Surviving…2016

The end of the road…

Rain making trails down miserable windows
Heralding a new forgettable day
Mirrored his thoughts and down-in-dumps feelings
He stared through the glass with nothing to say.
A glass on the table from yesterday evening
Stale smelling whisky he’d somehow not supped
Sitting now, staring and thinking of dying
A dejected man, head in hands that were cupped.

Suddenly a hand shot out to the whisky
Whisky sent flying, glass smashed on the floor
He couldn’t be bothered to reach for another
So he uncorked the bottle and from it drank more.
All round the sense of his failure clung to him
He’d let down a wife and a family for sure
The way that he had he just couldn’t remember
As he lifted the bottle for just one more pour.

Slow and contemptuous of himself he rose
Very much faster he stumbled and fell
He hadn’t seen soap in over a week now
Yet strangely he never even noticed the smell.
A voice in his head told him drink down another
Another said you’ve had enough for the day
They were both in his head so to him didn’t matter
As he tipped back the bottle and drank anyway.

And that’s how they found him, a heap on the floor
Drunk like the others with a bottle in his fist
They took him, washed him, and bed him for the night
And wondered as always, if this man was missed.
Daytime arrives, and the sun fills the sky
The man, like the others, wakes up very late
But sunshine means little as he sips on his bottle
He’s much too far gone to the hands of his fate.

©Joe Wilson – The end of the road…2015