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Boring Blues
If we're not writing poetry
What on earth are we doing
Only thinking ourselve mad
Purposeless perceptions
Availing nothing but repetition
Until a jotting of words
Occupies enough time, intellect
To be proud of our minds
Our living liscence grows wild
Yea, if there be no benefit
Sifting through and through
Circulating hurricanes of think
We can drink but also sinking
Inevitably entering the void
Of insignificance shall we go
Shall we strive to thrive today
In the name of all thats great
Yes
We do that and cleverly and with mirth or grim real, large as infinity or micro mote small - yes to poet is a verb. Guilty.
...a