My Way of Saying; 'We all Feel Like That Sometimes', to Someone.

Is he talking again?
He’s always got something to say,
You can just see it;
When he sucks air through his teeth
And smacks his lips,
You’ve got to gear yourself up for the long haul.
What will it be this time?
Will he blame others for his shortcomings?
Am I not sufficiently connected to
An ideal of spirituality? ...Or something.
Could be he’s about to try to heighten the meaning of
A day-to-day object or concept
For his own masturbatory, aesthetic-driven pleasure,
Or to placate his lazy drifting.
A day in bed is a day in bed – not a day of introspection,
Tell me you thought about life all day,
Tell me you read Kant and had an epiphany,
Tell me you didn’t touch yourself a little first.
Has he skim-read some theorists recently?
Or an indignant little poem by Nietzsche – maybe steal the concept?
Let words tumble clumsily onto the page with the finesse of an
Elephant on roller-skates;
When and where you read something is part of the fabric of time,
No one will know of your cheap reproduction.

Listen, man who does not write to the end of the line,
You can turn life on its head,
You can shoot it from a different angle,
You can walk around its meaning picking daffodils
Along the way,
Calling them little suns of the meadow,
But at some point you will have to face it;
Hard life.
And hard life doesn’t look kindly on sociopathic
Mental gymnastics and self-preservation.

It’s not easy;
An understatement,
But I try to save myself some pain
By ignoring my internal monologue.