Minutes Of Resentment Poem by T. M. Isaac

I have not the faintest clue as to how my ideas have fainted so miserably.
Perhaps, they weren't as well formulated as I thought they were
or as splendorous and witty as I believed them to be.

Instead, looking for answers in the wrong places
(I guess to some degree this has always been my problem)
Lurched back on a squeaking, rolling chair, in a dim room,
sipping on a beer getting warmer by the minute;
staring at the ceiling,
gazing at the title of books spread around me
all but one laced with the sweet loathing good acquaintance brings.

Searching idly for some sort of inspiration and finding nothing
but ideals that once must have meant something for someone else.

I know now that I know too less to think I know anything,
smirking at another 'cleverly' wrought philosophy
as pathetic as the dwindling mind that wrought it.

That's the rub of it all, then:
telling words from sounds and thoughts from ideas?
Waiting for disdain to melt into hours spent wondering,
when was the last time I have found myself remotely useful?

These are my minutes of resentment
(noted in shorthand for virtue of efficiency) .
Who knows what tomorrow brings?
It might bring nothing more than another brief account of discontent
or the glorious realization:
that I've become too sympathetic of myself.