Stage of Age

You know you've reached that age,
when you know you're not old,
but you feel cool and otherwise.
And you've felt happiness
and some gift-wrapped sadness,
which tosses inside of you
like a coin.
And you've been down on women,
like with a beer bottle,
several times, so far,
but they still don't make sense
of you, at all.
And you have had friends,
who say you've changed,
but it's nothing like that,
if only they could understand.
And mornings seem cruel,
and nights seem so long,
when the ground beneath you
shifts like sand.
And nothing seems like a movie,
or that one song,
when all you can do
is watch the gray moon,
dressed in a petticoat of clouds.
And you wish you threw your phone away,
closed your Facebook account,
not thought of sending flowers,
or that well-meant text message,
but thrown a cat instead
called Edgar Allan Poe.

But then again,
you've never felt like this before,
or looked so good,
or felt so...
so much so, that even though
the man in the mirror doesn't smile,
when all the rum gets you glum,
you still wouldn't give a fuck,
or turn, twist or care a flying duck,
and you could say the last two lines,
because it rhymes,
sit and blame the times.
So what,
you say,
fuck you.
The poets have died,
light a cigarette,
or go to a gym,
or buy shoes,
you've been through this before,
and you drift again on it,
like a miserable ghost,
because you felt a little pain.