Petty, Puny, Pompous Mind

Curtains open,

curtains closed

light through the fabric

leaves me exposed.

Inside I feel a magic

invoked by memories

and I speak unspoken words

of gratitude and whispers of pain.

Pistols of injustice

shot late at night.

I hear it from a continental distance

cut through fresh skin.

A mark of love

for a life that was unkind.

Inspired words that come late at night,

inspired sentences of little might

and inconsequential syllables only performed in my mind,

making me feel like the all-important kind.

Out there, there's a family

who didn't have lunch.

Out there there's a girl

who didn't want to be touched.

Out there there's an animal

who was butchered and overcooked,

and maybe all this is more important

then it looks.

Maybe all this is what I should search and find

so I can fix my petty, puny, pompous mind

and it makes me so angry

that it's the trivial

that I find, hurts me the most.

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