Ein schlechtes Gedicht über vorgekaute Gedanken

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I’m writing these letters knowing you’ll forget

Knowing you only read because you got time to kill

Read because you want to prove you care

Blaming yourself because who else is there

To care

Certainly not me

Sitting on a cushioned couch

It smells kind of rotten, old

There is this hole I tried to forget about

Tried to cover up with

A patch

My ass

Seated gently while needy hands grasp for crispy comfort

Paralyzed eyeballs staring into a void

Enjoying this carefree, joyous time

What’s missing they seem to question

Whatever, I need more.

They say today it’s them,

Tomorrow it’s you

but the message isn’t coming through

I mean, I know what’s left to do but why me, why today?

These problems remain, gonna stay anyways

I feel like what I feel isn’t the way supposed to

I should be shocked

Feel disgusted

Feel like I don’t want to be part of…

Something

My hands grab for another crunchy piece of pleasure

As questions slip away

I turn on my radio

John Lennon,

Longing for peace to have a chance

I long to find my remote control

Turn to the next song

Bored with compassion

Bored with taking actions

What else is wrong?

In 3..2…1… we all dance to another song.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

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