My Mice Are Calling for Me

the problem
with being content
is that it does not make
for great literature
unless you're writing teen novels,
which will sell by the boatloads.
what a shame,
all that paper that was wasted,
could of gone to Mexico,
for some poor kid
to wipe his ass with.
the dilemma
with being content
is that people constantly laugh at you
and not with you.
the real sadness there,
is that you don't even realize
that they are laughing at you.
constantly.
you mistake smiles and giggles,
for heart felt embraces.
the grief
with being content,
is that it makes for bad writing.
and right now,
at this instant.
i am content.
and this poem
this small collection of words.
is truly a sack of shit swarming with flies.
i feel as though the time wasted typing this out
could of been better spent flogging my dong.
or finding the right size baby bottle nipple to fit this bottle.
i want those minutes back from my life.
they are not justified.
oh,
well,
hey,
look at that.
yeah.
up there.. that right there
that little blurb
about the shitty poem,
i wasn't happy with it,
oh man,
i could feel just a little fire,
call them embers,
in me.
ahh,
back to normal.
yee god's man!
a small roller coaster
around my room
as three little mice
with engineer hats are at the helm
each with a little cigar clenched in their mouths.
i must go now.
my mice are calling for me.