Contentment

I want to write of existential angst,
to put a microscope to the cracks
of some whiny slut's facade,
to relay the brutal flaying
of some poor fool
or track the tragic causality of life...
but I find myself unable.

I want to graffiti the walls
with which she sealed herself in
then hung a sign claiming
the world boxed her out...
but I just can't find the moxie.

I want nothing more
than to grasp him by the ear
which he boasts is deaf to all,
yank it when he protests
that he's too hardened
to feel anything anymore,
and drag him squealing
back to common sense
(or at least to that Suburbia upbringing
that he hides so carefully)...
But I just can't bring myself to care.


Whoever said the hungry write no novels
has never been content.