Untitled Poem.

Short poem I wrote long ago.

To cry, means joy.
To be happy, means to cry.
Scared, lonely and lost.
Confident drunk and tossed.
Sad, old and frail.
Happy, young, but pale.
Tan, fit, but stale.
Young, broke and in jail.
When all is relative.
What matters?
When the glass clatters.
Or if the glass shatters?