How's the writing?

Somewhat deplorable.
All lost in translation
via some lost cunt
panting pathetically away
from a reclining soap box.
Penning seemingly great ideas
in to the eyes of the needy.

I miss the typewriter,
these gentle keys have no balls.
There's no workout
letting my fingers fall
on to ergonomically positioned keys.
Christ knows how any of you
do it so frequently
without laughing hysterically
at yourselves.

Lost loves, heartaches,
abuse and fine melodies.
I've been as guilty
as the most profoundly inadequate.
Still, where's the umph?
Where are the swollen knuckles
and the death sweats?

I'll tell you what it is...
A fucking fancy dress foray
upon facing up to hard fact.
It's a man in a dress
dancing Patrick Swayze
because its a little easier
than swallowing surroundings.

It's a bunch of unhappies
playing god with a cheap rhyme
or a second hand metaphor.
It's waking up in the morning
and doing nothing
because something
would invoke change
and change is making your asshole twitch.

I've been there,
and I'm not playing the veteran card,
because that's not to be played.
Truth is, it's wasting time
and looking at that growing waistline
there's not that much to be had.