The Forgotten

This poem is in the early early stages.

Isolated and alone
in a stuffy small room.
The forgotten sit waiting
with that feeling of doom.

No friends come visiting
or text to say hi.
The forgotten sit crying
wondering why.

Friends used to come knocking
with goodies galore.
But the forgotten got sicker
and they don't call anymore.

What's left are the special ones
the true and the good.
The forgottens support system
taking them whatever the mood.

We can't help but wonder
what would have been.
If the forgotten hadn't got weaker
would they have been more keen.

So alone in a room
the forgotten lie.
Whiling away the hours
until they die.