Memos

Drones drooling their drudgery
in listless lines of stagnant suns,
watching them clone their scribbles
and cringe from the stale abuse in clichés.

Brain exploding in a thousand images,
heart racing with a fiery dream,
while fingers taps a beat upon the desk
in a private Morse code of seething rage.

A moment of pure and piercing ire seizure
sweeps across the chest
when a Shakespearian megalomaniac embezzle
struts before your mound of papers and files,
dispensing his literary crud as brilliance,
subtly hinting for raves
over the dribble he calls genius.

Wading through the litany of worn out phrases
scrawled as uninspired inventive sayings
upon the memos that rule your day,
knowing not a single word will be insightful
or the least bit infected with originality.

Meanwhile your quill that pens its light
has no admirers among the self anointed authors
whole waltz in their delusions,
pandering their plagiarized philosophies
before your eyes and ears.

Nothing aches the heart more
for one with ink in the veins
than living in a print’s oblivion
while inept minds with no creative talent
are the best sellers of corporate correspondence,
who never once read your gems.