You’ve something to say so
You call and plead for
Understanding,
But most often you’ll find
It’s only the fools who
Are there standing
To pick up your words,
Like so many turds. They’re
Still puzzled, feel soiled,
Despite all your toil.
Your epiphanies get left
On landfills, the final
Repositories for your visions,
Your breakthroughs, your
Inspirations: all taken as
Mere babble, banal
As the print on a can
Of food for some brand
Of housebound animal.
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