Are any words truly ours
moving in a void of creativity
a vacuum of exasperation
we believe is our own selves
in search for the thread that unites and unties
the present from the unreal past
and the moulding of permissive sensitivity
it does not matter
we are unto ourselves
an impression of liquid genteelness
miniscule in its notoreity
and huge is its manifestations

the liking for saying, "im not easy to be understood"
as though it matters
to be understood or not
the discomfort if being told so

have we solved poverty
communism tried and we killed it
Gandhi cried and we let him
and we laugh now, uncaring
with the coat of genius