For the most part bore the consciouses of others,
My obsessions bear the marks of neuroses,
My concerns are often marred by impracticality,
My admonitions denigrated by opinions.
Such is life I suppose,
I fancy myself a desert rose,
Amongst the unified rows of cacti and crows,
I stand solemn, wondering when to cast my petals low,
And repaint what I feel should be beauty,
Seems that this dusty terrain,
The rusty unused brains,
Well the whole cache of people in honesty,
Oscillates far too much between substance and such,
Banal pursuits it makes me sore to the touch,
So I rush to the confines of my room,
To ponder the inescapable doom,
Of mankind at his own behest.
I sit back and view the utter fragmentation,
The problematic shattered pieces of an equation,
And I rack my being attempting to find solutions,
Searching waters looking for ablution…
Because the current stases don’t work,
The current spouts don’t spurt,
Clean ideas or concepts that work in totality,
So while trying to resist futility,
I employ every conceivable utility,
Faculty and brain cell I can.
But where I sit there is no end.
So hope is not my friend.