They Grind Me

They grind me
like sand on dead skin
grating words of decay.

Spontaneous is the transformation
which rubs me the wrong way.

These hound-dogs
which hunt by scent
spoiling for a fight
beneath a sunny tree
spewing barks, that bay
at the collared man.

They grind me
like rich thoughts
crushing poor minds.

These turning cranks
of twisted, hobbled shoes
uninspired parities
and their insipid tunes.

They grind me
like a government
of cold pavement
which grinds away the street.

They grind me
on papered pulp
as the ink runs away.

Leaving but a worn soul
which has been ground
yet still…..

they grind me.