Dread

I enter the pathetically decorated room,
Rushing silently past obstacles.
Glancing at the clock,
5 minutes missing from its face.
But the vulture's eyes don't flicker,
His balding, ugly features carry on,
A dull throb of boredom ebbing in return.

My heart drops as I look down,
The white rectangle contrasting the stony grey,
In a blazing heat of patronising laughter.
The monotonous black ink
Boldly sits and mocks the reader,
As the ancient symbols form another title,
Another tale of misinterpreted emotions.
Another poem.

Take out your sharp metal tools,
And rip it apart.
Create links where there are none,
And kid yourself.
Poems are just badly written stories,
Or maybe a half arsed song?

In the end no one's right,
No one's wrong,
There are no winners in a battle of interpretation,
But the clock, is one of the many losers.

I officially hate poems.