Trite Little Nothing

There she goes, the critics sneer-

Another teenage angst philosopher.

Spewing clichés by the mouthful,

Phrases laced with syndicated pain.

They say to her:

Trite little nothing,

Your kind comes and goes;

Trite little nothing,

Bleeding by the books.

She’s accused of aping greater poets

Of thinking and acting in lesser shades

Her world has dimmed from Technicolor

She’s drowning in the mundane.

It’s said of her:

Trite little nothing,

Her kind comes and goes;

Trite little nothing,

Typecast of the anguished.

But as the words run jagged from her-

As the maudlin sentiments go on-

Her tears slip unnoticed, or worse yet, misread;

Glassed eyes lie crushed beneath boots of the jaded.

She thinks it now:

Trite little nothing,

She’ll soon come and go.

Trite little nothing,

Waiting for a world.

            —March 8, 2004