Poem-A-Day: Day 580

Cockroaches

There’s some queer familiarity I share
with the idiot assholes that follow
my every movement.

I follow them close
as they follow me, and the truism
is oddly suspect in the nature of dance.

I cared before, but now the waste is gone
and I can’t bring myself to value
the inferiority of the complex.

Because it’s no more complex
than wasting time in an effort to waste time,
there is no point aside from being problematic.