How do you suppose That your opinions matter, When no one really Bothers your chatter ? As if a drop in the ocean Or an ant on the ground, I keep wondering What is this extra sound ? The one that doesn't Let me be myself, The one that brings to me News without askance, The one that persuades To go against my own wishes, And that Which brings about twitches. The freely given words From here and there All hay-wired, Bring no value to me Except for exposing The people and their minds. What if we never heard What was being said about us ? Whether behind or in front, Irrespective of the person ? The provocation that they bring along, Without listening to the bird song, Or falling in love with individuality, Surely gives proof Of how screwed Are our conceptions Of judgments and goofs.
I bleed my heart on paper through words.