Wasting Words;
Like some hollow purge;
Four or Five times a day
Do you work or do you not?
Time to tune out
the trifling thought
Of the unceasing babbling of
the distant polyglot.

These ideas have the semblance
Of something deep and profound
Dabbling in irony,
Always prevalent
Always around,

As if cool carelessness
by itself can be considered art.
But, the words fail to penetrate
To anyone’s core,
Or lead them to ponder the
the mysteries of the heart.
Vainly the words fade easily in and out
Like the drunken rambling and shout
of the mad and crazed lout.

Lazy stream of consciousness
Careless, unfiltered sentences
Appear to have the utmost pretenses
But, this is not a heartfelt journal,
No tis not!
But is nothing more
Than two-dimensional abstract
yet popular self-indulgent rot.