Smuggling Words Across Calendar Lines

We are just nothing but filler sounds.
Value will be created tomorrow
and yesterday is so far away
it might as well be a new day
whenever I close my eyes.
I can’t carry him with me.
It isn’t about what I say
It isn’t even about what I am doing
It is all about how I am perceived.
And perceive me not wrong,
I like to deceit
make me look
a little better.
Never stormy weather,
shouldn’t see my real face.
Shine the cutlery for visitors.
And lock the doors to the cellar.
We are just nothing but filler sounds
because I would like to think about myself a little better
but I have seen they ones who do
and they are lost,
what they are drooling on isn’t true,
they don’t care, their walls
is what they choose, and
it gets them:
nothing.
At best
turns their brains to mousse
and in their own juice is
where they cook all ideas.
Thank god,
or evolution,
we are just nothing but filler sounds.
Carriers of thought,
even though
sometimes
I would like my voice
to storm across
and rip apart every obstacle
in its way,
heal the sick,
brighten the damp,
get the red folk off their plan,
make politicians reconnect with their humanity
and capitalists accept their own mortality.
But I don’t get to speak,
and if I asked myself,
I get that
it is better that way,
isn’t it?
We are just nothing but filler sounds,
most words aren’t supposed to
reverberate across the 4th
dimension.
catastrophic forgetting.
The omitted arrangement
that we don’t drag,
what we don’t bring along.
Sadly we will never learn.
We are at best inflated to a fascinating story.
There is just never enough space in time.
Just sufficient moments to get along with the room.
To make kiss and miss,
cry and die,
like all the others
rhyme
for another time.

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