trite ramblings

This ink is so pretty.
Organizing itself by my command,
transforming this matted
piece of wood into
Art, something I callously
use to pour out the trite things that matter,
to Me at least,
in my own little world. Nearby,
Life continues on normally,
or what passes for a Life
does, in this world knotted
into chaos where nothing
ever Listens to you anymore.
Except for the ink,
and that doesn't matter anyway.