Words, words,
Words, words.
Smelly, rotten little turds,
They answer no questions,
Solve no riddles,
Leave nothing but wasted lives in the middle.
Lines of poetry…
A waste of space!
Lines of meaning going to waste.
Nothing discovered,
Nothing new.
Filling no emptiness betwixt me and you.
Whether whispered in love
Or shouted in hate,
Too many words, too little, too late.
If I wrote for a year,
I may never be through,
Never spanning the chasm betwixt me and you.
They can’t draw you near,
Nor hold you dear,
They don’t put your whispers of love in my ear.
Just torment with promise.
And fail in their pride;
Never filling the emptiness that I have inside.
