Politically Incorrect

it was in the center of my winter on no particular day when I realized about face, my life stopped here. how could it continue knowing all that I had come to know fruitless and wilted dejected and repulsed the savory snow ran whining as usual. when would I learn the obvious? that others are not like me regardless of my outward sensitivity compassionate eyes roll inward when faced with the truth that nobody cares... words, they mean nothing as they fall from lying lips, pretentious platitudes of anything other than sincerity, honesty from a heart beating true, oh no! let's be politically correct uttering sounds of sweet and non-offensive tripe from a freshly killed sow taken from somewhere up north of the border, where nobody talks about irrelevant things it's much more efficient to spill guts on the lampshade, ducks on the tarp we'll last here till summer if no one comes close