Tittle-Tattle Poem by Leaking Pen

Whose whispers ring inside my inner ear
Like an endless rush of a carving waterfall,
Piercing my soul to form its own path
I have no control over nature's course.
I'm not a biologist or an otologist,
Or know it all- Gestalt psychologist-
A holy man, a saint, an angel, or a monk
No holy divinity greases my clock.
I'm run of the mill, an average Joe blow,
I process what feeds randomly my daily mill.
You wont notice me as you pass me by;
You dismiss my space, while you gossip away!
One precent is my proven defensive batting average,
While ninety nine percent tittle-tattle trajectories
Shake the grounds I anchor my bolts in.
Everyday I fall prey to sounds of malevolent whispers,
And at bedtime I drown in make belief false hisses.
I pity my soul's intense workload:
Beyond its Godly designed specs.
Mephistopheles won each round in and out of the ring.
Ninety nine percent tittle-tattle piercing trajectories
Plate my every breath with a chaotic existence.
Who is condemned to hell? Whose forever-fertile fiery flesh?
It is I the embodiment of Faust's destiny.
My soul's weakness unable to release itself
From the firm grip of loose tongues!


May 15 2014
Copyright Leaking Pen 2014