When I’m One Hundred

I feel like I’m boring, uninteresting,

No one cares to hear what I have to say,

And it’s easy to ignore me when I’m texting,

Maybe I get a few messages, or none, at the end of the day,

No one wants to have a long talk anymore,

I must be too bothersome, annoying,

I guess I just make people mentally sore,

Talking with me is no longer enjoying,

I’m mean and impatient, purely overwhelming,

At least that’s how I feel about myself lately,

Everyone just seems unhappy and unwilling,

To simply interact anymore than just sedately,

And I’m not wanted, that’s clear to me,

Only my parents show any care,

And I bet no one else would disagree,

Because I’m simpy useless, to be fair,

No one needs me, I have nothing to offer,

No one wants to give to me in kindness,

Even when I’m nothing more than a coffer,

They just stand there, catching my blindness,

I have no worth to the world, never will,

That’s just a self-evident truth I’ve learned,

I don’t make people happy, I make them ill,

No one smiles with their stomach churned,

And in the end I’m lonely, I know,

No one wants to change that, it’s okay,

They just come to take and go,

And I’m not asking for love in a romantic way.

 

And when I’m One Hundred or more,

With a new heart freshly printed,

I’ll still to be lonely, my old mind sore,

Because no one wants someone so resented.

 

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