I know that we speak the same language.
You know that I've said it
ten thousand times,
But somehow we're just not
communicating
In enumerating a tired old
theme.
Taking apart every syllable,
Every nuance laid threadbare before us, picked clean.
And still you don't hear, or
do you ignore?
Would it help if I shouted
and screamed?
The rules of polite
conversation sometimes
Tie the pitiful hands of the
articulate
When the ears of the listener
deafen and turn
In directions too often not
meant to be tread,
Leaving the speaker, the
teller of stories, to
Squirm in frustration much to
the point
Of wishing the listener, to
his dismay,
Were strangled, beaten and
left for dead.
Such a simple, magical
plan...
Pity you don't understand.
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