waste

a waste of paper,
writen here today,
this poem must be really gay,
i think the feeling of wasted time,
will be sitting in back of mind,
but you read on right to the end,
searching for some hidden friend, 
some piece of prose that would just put,
some conection to those puzzled looks,
on you face the furrowed brow,
this really is confusing now,
and now the last, 
the fleeting bend,
ive written all and thats the end...