Untitled

I don't want to spend another uninspiring hour
in a smoke-filled bar pretending that I care
about some great rebellion, or the poetry of freedom,
dropping names of people that I wish were there.

Even if I felt like drinking, it would feel just like more boredom,
endless motions in some pointless riparte;
just words wasted in a neverending stab at conversation
trying to forget I've got nothing to say.

I don't want to mix and mingle with another group of strangers
who are only there to see and to be seen;
interested in the deception of making some great connection
over shots of cheap tequila and Jim Beam.

I don't care about your politics, your sex life or your business,
and you damned sure won't be interested in mine;
so what's the point of all of this? It seems so unimportant;
and a lot like wasting too much precious time.

I don't want to spend another minute doing this great nothing
that we seem to think is how to get along.
If that's all there is, I'm finished; you can muddle on without me.
I won't bother writing you any more songs.

11 FEB 2007