No ideas, but all the motivation.
All the reasons to do it yet no reason at all.
Like a marathon, hitting a wall.
Just spit it out,
Put it on the page! Put it on the Page!
Forget if it makes sense, forget the grammar and spell checks.
Fuck making sense.
Just put it on the page,
Gibberish or garbage is better than nothing.
Just put something on the page.
Courage Is The Sweetest Lullaby
Fear not your lions,
And constrain yourself
upon the unsightly sounds
of this date of sorrow.
Do but construct,
And constrain,
For the winter’s winds are but lost
by the summer sun.
The nymphs of the seasons
do hold their treasons so,
Be not the character of
perpetual woe.
Rains do pitch upon this sight,
Wish yourself well,
Wish yourself sweet goodnight.
Art in Our Times
Piss poor excuse for a joke,
All the un-ironic irony in real life.
I have always said it,
Life is a parody of the self,
We live in Chaplin’s Modern Times,
We are the machines,
And the proles.
We are wheels,
Turning and obedient to the driver,
Circle after circle,
Loop after loop.
Never changing,
Always moving,
Who are we, you, I?
Identity in these times,
Matches no other,
Identity in the past,
Must be laid to rest.
People are tired of cliches,
They need new ones,
New tropes,
New motifs,
New characters.
We,
The artists,
The writers,
The workers!
We must create something new.
We must not merely express our times,
We must change them.
What are the times we live in?
What will our era be called?
What can one do?
to help,
to change,
to move forward?
What can one do to stop the delay?
So that art,
and liberty,
can save us all.
Dull, now babbles some
wanna-be Socrates.
A Plato of the non-
existent preverbal page.
An awkward stammer
and pause gone about
with forced emotion.
So forced that it has no force,
no power,
gone and now at rest,
deserving non of its fake praise.
Lofty lust, and more incoherent
babbles and rambles in the name
of some forgotten crackpot
pipe dream.
Again this “philosopher” speaks,
and the actual teacher wretches in the corner,
excess is the key word
of the wanna-be Socrates.
Shall I compare thee to a summer sweat?
Thou art more sticky, unwanted and unpleasant.
Rough wings smelling of piss do flow wild as you speak,
And your public lease is illegitimate.
Sometimes too hot your words break,
And often is other complexions marked to for sin.
And every justice spirited.
By chance our natures changing course, you win,
But summer swelters always end.
No power you have is fair, throughout!
And death will grab you, gold will not ascend,
When eternal lines to time thrown out.
So long as we can breathe or see,
You are ruing my life’s prosperity.
So many tears,
So many years,
So many fears,
So many beers.
So many jokes,
So many tokes.
So many drugs,
So many hugs.
So much pain,
So much gain.
These are the things to live for,
So many things,
And so many more.
A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.”
Well, I have to ask myself, has it?
Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark?
What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche,
Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kind to see,
to hear,
to learn the truth.
Poetry is not supposed to be work,
or is that too bourgeois?
I say poetry like anything can be rebranded for the worst,
but poetry is thought, the one thing that cannot be erased.
Poetry, is something to make all our own.
So, has it stopped being fun?
Not by a long shot.
