I turn over, I attempt yet again to sleep
The words they rush through my mind, saying much, meaning little
I must write this down
I hear selfish angry voices from the street
The emptiness of unfeeling
Arguing about banalities
The violence so easily released
Add a sip of alcohol stand back and watch
The slow witted become volatile
The intellectual becomes slow witted
Forward is up and down is out
The incompleteness of an empty state
The heart beats at a varying rate
The easily led, the well fed
All tucked-up safe in their beds
Complain about everything
Know about little while expressing
Nothing nothing nothing
Will you agree you can’t change most of the foolishness
If it can’t see its limitations
That’s why those affected are always espousing such irrelevance.
Sucking their figurative thumbs
Nodding yes while thinking little
They have no clue as to why they feel bitter
If they were to awaken from a sudden shake of realisation
What they believe in is entirely false
It will leave them cold
Leave them cold
is it too late is it too late?
Mark Catlin July 2015.
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