a class of idiot

all our heads are filled with the same words
each as drab and burning as the next
its a miracle that we push forward
each with different colored shoes,
but all still protecting our feet
the thinking man gathers much moss
he slumps down in chairs
consumes the world with sad stares
joins in chorus when one is needed
monsters inside each
oh well the diatribe of the demented
falls on ignoring ears
the symphony, the melody forgotten
replaced with malady, malignancy
broken bottles and empty cans
litter the streets and invade
on the hoping spirits of weak
Will I wreak havoc on wandering hearts
which slash tires with little thought
a beginning of an ending a miracle
and a loss
spin the wheel ride the ride
shut up and sit down


crying does nothing

It isn't entropy that kills a man, it is thought. Mine come down like a hammer on my spine and store that pain in my back and legs. It's deep inside. A blackened sickness, tiredness from futility. Working for nothing, not being able to be loved or love at all. Losing senses slowly, painfully taking steps toward another fantastic nothing, waiting for the winds of change, but change comes from within and my within in jammed with all that before. One day we all die and fill up those graves, that earth, returned to the stink the stench we trudged through just to get this far. Just to find a wink of compassion from a nurse or a doctor in charge, just to find ourselves but that never happens because we are nothing, everything is nothing and nothing is disgusting.