Each Hour Soured Poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar

Each hour soured to devour,
Leaves a prolonged bitter taste.
Wasted to digest,
A sharing with others...
Left over misery.
As if forced down their throats.

Why is it...
People will choose and select,
What looks good on the menu.
Be upset with its appearance.
And complain about the presentation.
Yet continue to feed upon it.
Because impressions they want to make.

Each hour to devour,
What is seen to be shown...
Should be left alone.
People still will sit,
Making themselves sick over it.
Then will tell everyone,
Known to spread gossip.
How someone else so insensitive,
Told them...
"The best way to avoid anything,
Is not to get involved.
What is not yours to solve.
And if you do get involved,
To leave you sick.
Its your problem to fix.
Not mine or your neighbor.
But yours.
You ain't getting on my nerves."