this is not a poem

This is not a poem,

You dry souled little boy
Hung-up, constipated, I should pity you but am not that moral
Maybe I should tell you all your little fears and resentments are
Consuming you, but youd throw a little temper tantrum
your too scared to let things go, or can’t help but to be broken by little things
Too selfish, too spoiled, downward eyes,
Droopy grimace, go hide in your room baby, suck your thum
Read comics, online chat sites, I would say masturbate
But I don’t think you can cum. You’re all taboo, shame, guilt
Self obsessed anxiety, the world has scared you to death
Dry spirit, rotting, go crawl into a hole and cry

Professor bore me to death, are you still talking
Take a breath doctor dusty, I’m not impressed, your words words
Words words words words words….
Ok ok I get it you’re an intellectual, ok, thing is
I don’t care about any of it, if talking is not for the sake
Of action, of pleasure, of light, of life, of movement,
Why are you still here, its obvious that you don’t care if anyone is listening
You like to talk, that’s the point, does it make you feel powerful,
In control, im not going to stand here and listen to you jerk off all day
When I walk away you just keep making your speech, to the air

So big time middle management you should be so very proud
Little office, little desk, little computer, little Alexander, Pompey,
Saladin, MacArthur etc….
So concerned with this tiny, focused, pointless, slow-motion factory of death
Keep the wells running smooth little man, keep oil on the gears, you are a jester
A fool but you cant see it, overweight stuffed shirt man, drink more coffiee so
You can fight traffic on the way home, did a good job today, counted every penny
Made sure the rock was pushed to the top of the hill, tomorrow you can push it up again
Thus your life drips away like the coffee you brew, one little bit at a time
Miserable lap dog for the bosses, they spit and you lick it up for nourishment
Having done nothing, meant nothing, seen nothing