All the talking heads, converged on my soul
all speaking of nothing and rarely making a point, but
when the world comes spinning out of control
they are there with their heads on
straight, and they watch the destruction through a pane of glass
in order for the world to live and feel alive and
watch the sun as it sets on the horizon
below the sea that bewilders the depths
of souls, and yet I cannot sit here and listen
to their sweet tidbits of emptiness.
What is the damn point
if I'm learning nothing and accomplishing
the same, without persistence or affluence life is a bore
love must wait and the pot is boiling over.
It is only in frustration that these poems get written,
only from my pestering need to say anything
to someone, or something to anyone.
I can no longer let my artistry be corrupted by stagnation
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