The hard part
is not doing
how people inch to act
they know no ceasing

myriad words they pour out
daily,- unending
bent only on
the same thinking

their minds too stimulated
never in silence, resting
other people's ideas
they can't stop picking

what has been taken in
is like leech sticking
on the skin- time rushes in compounding
what's left is but the death of meaning