A Poem That Refuses to Matter

I wrote a poem that has no meaning,
Though even meaningless verses bleed meaning,
This one, I swear, is pointless,
As pointless as modern verse.
That spurns rhyme, yet finds itself,
Climbing back to random words.
Thyme.
It will waste your time, I warn you.

I stand in this depressing world,
It’s my fault,
I worship temples of flesh and bone,
I identify as a pen.
That bleeds ink and intention.

This poem is pointless,
And yet you’re still reading,
Still searching for meaning
In these lines that insist,
They have none to give.
Is that how desperate you are to feel?