...

Lying down on the ground
On the cool grass of a midsummer morning
I am thinking; thinking why do we have to think so much?
Why do we have to ask so many questions?
Why do we have to worry about every-darn-thing in this whole world?
Why do we always end up thinking and believing that we are the centre of this universe
Putting our own self before anyone else
Think only about ourselves
Then what's the point of even thinking
what's the use of that scrambled mess in our heads
when all we do is think about ourselves
And what good are we doing to ourselves
Or let put this differently
Are we doing any good to ourselves?
Are we doing any good with our lives?
Are we of any use?
Are we even alive?
Are we? ?
I'm not gonna answer that
I'm not gonna waste my time
It just doesn't bother me
Coz i'm just like you
Lazy....
Sitting on his butt
with a pen in his hand
writing this......whatever this is

I thought all of this in the morning
and now i'm blurting it all out
and when you'll read it
You'll say ' What the....! ! ! ,
what does this dumass of a poet wanna say? '
And i'd say ' This is just the way we are
Crappy;
Boring;
Useless;
Selfish and Indifferent;
'Selfish', you ask, 'wait, a poem - selfish? '

I say, 'Its selfish because it doesnt care about the reader.
It is incredibly meaningless but it still goes on
without caring for the fact that the person reading;
he is crying out for help,
praying that this poem would end
if you dare call it a poem, that is,
This is how ridiculous we are.....
This is how pathetic we are.......
This is us........................