Gibberish flows onto the paper
With no reevaluation.
Simple nonsense of nonsensical dreams
Try to break through the barriers
Of the vast, empty flood of unoriginal thoughts.
A wall of brown, blank wood
Simply taunts the writer—
No,
Not writer,
But dreamer of few words and few emotions.
Funny that a poet of little feeling
Pours their feelings
Into breaking down this rampart
Of writers' block.
A rampart,
Indeed,
To shield a mind from corruption.
Laughable that an idealist of few,
Meaningless words
Clings to sadness for creativity.
They depend on the negativity
To fuel their miasma of foggy poems.
Absurd that an author of unoriginal thoughts
Uses redundant words to write
Ridiculously, impractical stories
As if trying to retell tales they cannot change.
However, nothing is to change their hard-headed personality
About how to spend their time
For such a small, insignificant lifetime.
Why shall a mere human care
About how they spend their unimportant century?
Perhaps a small card dealt could turn tables,
But at the end of the day,
One is unable to alter the hand
That has been shuffled.
For it is such foolish banter
In a deck of cards,
That simply wishes to be in a new order,
Is always unalterably the same group of 52.
Much similar is the foolish banter
Etched onto the page
Which tries to convey a poem of attachment,
Using the same words in different ways.
