Poem- “Meaningless”

“Meaningless”

We read very few books.

The world is full of millions of books we don’t read.

And, we are mostly illiterate.

You don’t buy books each day.

You don’t read during sleep.

You don’t study on the moon.

You don’t walk into a book and find the writer.

If anything, reading goes to pass for better or worse.

A book opens with your face in it.

Both eyes drift of space upon page.

Looks get to be undertaking for viewership.

Every chapter begins with paper.

I don’t write over changes across entire language.

One pen breaks in thunder; one pen sticks in mud.

Where does ink leave enough feeling dark as black text?

A mind burns under the skull.

I’m numb and plain.

Bacon ruins the last supper.

Does that make sense?

No.

Does that make nonsense?

My words click on ice.

Beauty is in the eye of a dreaming box of crayons.

You feel that?

Don’t ask me nothing until you shut up everything.

Pigs fly of dust, dirt, and debris.

I flip pages under the cover.

A dream happens within reach on those rare moments.

Love turns into a green heart.

Something can match void for length.

Words drip in a fountain.

Put your hands over your head and remove unwanted hair.

Crazy people need love across the spacing drift.

Buy a book or give me your money.

Mark my words either way.

Light ends in heat for sight.

You dream and wonder and wonder and dream.

Sweet talk is disgusting.

At least each word transforms meaning into old color.

How does age meet boredom?

It wants of need to need of want.

Now, what was I saying?

Oh, yes!

We read very few books.

Humans are born into page and chapter.

Oh, we get, we receive.

Can you actually talk like a quiet book?

Ego is made of dust and glitter.

I find a poem and make it out one.