The Grand Bussypest Hotel

What a fool.

This pansy talks in
a steady, passive voice.
Instead of saying he wants to be held,
if he just carried through,
he would increase his chances
of doing something great.
He would make a mark out of his feeble,
fickle existence.

What a fool.
What a fad.

This man thinks
the Great Assby
will be the leader of the retribution
from the disparity
of many ages past.

What he forgets is that anyone
seldom does anything
for free, if anyone
would, peace
would reign
anywhere,
unhinged.

What a fool.
What a fad.
What an embarrassment to our class.

Wake up.
He doesn't give a shit about you.
He won't pay his dues.
You'll just be there moping on the floor
waiting, like an invasive bug,
one moment there, and the next one
stomped
with your insides sprawled all over.

You've been told
a hundred million times
of what a pathetic act
it is to be soft and kind,
to open up after being run over
by someone that is now
somehow fucking
someone 
somewhere.

Somehow
the pain of heartbreak is less
than the void of solitude
in the nook of my cranny.

Somehow
I keep waking up
to our mornings,
peaceful, static.

Somehow
I get the energy to get up,
to get dressed to impress
as I head downstairs
to where
continental breakfast is served
at the Grand Bussypest Hotel.

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