Sometimes a poem comes into the creative conscious with a LOT to say. Pages of words. Usually i send them into a quiet peaceful room for surgery (editing) and this one took a fair good months of getting it down to the lean almost mean creature it is today

There is an interesting rumble in there
In the cafeteria of the narcissistic
As they chew on their self pity sandwiches
And mutter sad about a sunset world that never was

A slow hum of self awareness
Also regret
That weighs them down
Because , finally, they seem to know
That by only looking back
They have nowhere left to go

They broke the first rule
‘Dare to try NOT to be ordinary’
Now stuck in a pool of Spell It Out
They starved imagination
Left it there
Gasping, fragile, breaking
In a room with no windows

And there is a badly warped tape that only plays old hits
So they dance the solo giving up waltz

(That sigh we hear is not of passion)