Its dejavu
the things they do
writing the same poem
but for who?
**** near everyone starts
with the same words.
He or she
and what follows is
some heartbreak
or stroke of obsession.
As if their words
are possessed and compressed
into such tiny things.
Where once blue jays sang
as they softly perched
partly leaning over
where deeply green leaves grows,
now their heart moans
and their skin grows
silky red river scars.
Where once chipmunks
chattered and scattered
dancing around each other
in a wild rumpus,
claiming this ground is
theirs,
now she cries
a ****** without her
drug of choice,
not ******
but his angelic voice.
Where fish scales sparkled
and the pond rippled
in pursuit of what fishes do
while the water was
glimmering to,
now he is perplexed
about how complex
her brown hair is,
wants to know
how she tastes down there
and longs to smack that
backed upped ***.
Nature evaporates.
Philosophy and poetry
lose their edges,
while I sulk away
to wither in rage
and my own heartbreak
cause I know they are
so much more.
They are vast caverns of complexity,
deep seas of variety,
and a universe inside themselves,
but those are depths
they will not explore.