The forgotten man exists alone, lying on his bed,
staring at the ceiling, dark thoughts within his head.
Wondering where it all went wrong, was it something he did say?
or did his symptoms become embarrassing driving them away?
The circle of friends that he once had, has now become an arc,
their voices now an echo of life he was forced to depart.
Those days of being in demand, because he had something someone wanted,
when it suited them to be his friend, but then so easily absconded.
They say that no man is a failure as long he has good friends.
so if friends are hard to come by, where does this leave him?
He wonders if he slipped away, here today, would anybody notice?
and whisper at his funeral mass what a wonderful guy to have known us.
Shortly after dx'd I made a pledge, 'I will not let my dark cloud put others in the shade', thus, I let many off the hook and possibly pushed those closest away. What price my noble spirit!
I was wrong and often am......but not about this poem my friend, the 'whisper' in your poems is in the subjects you write about for me, and any piece that causes me to think or feel gets my vote.
Sad but true, Dawson. That is why groups such as ours are so important. - A fine poem.
I really felt this poem. It’s hard to sustain friendships with PD.