The Reader of the Rhyme

do you ever ask yourself...what am I doing here?...why am I reading this?

youve never owned a book of poetry
only borrowed from pages that
other people left crumpled
in their wake.

you've never read everything written
but mined through a writer's soul
visiting thoughts you can't
think of yourself.

You don't understand the thoughts provoked
but you aim for the profound gesture,
spewing broken dreams to deaf witnesses
while you're suspended in
your vacuum of disregard.

every time you move it's part of your mime,
playing out your role of the stricken one,
delivering a message no one can interpret
and your existence seems to recede
into the lines you read between.