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.
What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution?
PRODUCE!
Must produce content!
For fame,
For a following,
Quite literally and painfully so,
thanks to the stench of both words.
To produce is to manufacture,
To manufacture is to produce.
The workers are the ones who produce,
So the artists,
the writers,
the creators,
we are the workers to.
We are a part of that thing called revolution,
And we must forgive Marx for forgetting us.
Artists!
Artists of the world, unite!
We have nothing to lose but our chains,
We have everything to gain
when we gain the freedom to create!
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.
The Teacher As The Poet
Content’s production,
Ease of mind and constant rush,
Narcotic ease,
And still the voices don’t stop.
Stagnation is a creative mind’s enemy,
as is cowardice.
We are our words,
our letters and symbols.
Intentions mean nothing when they fail,
Yet success is still a subjective term.
I am responsible for the quiet dawn
of these minds,
if only for a day.
What world do we live in now?
What world was it before?
And what shall it be?
This is not a journal entry,
Poetry is public record,
And to be used,
On what was “just” another day.
Wasted Time
So do we fall
sweetly against the brittle gunk
and waste the very minutes
of a peaceful ending.
So it was written,
and spoken,
and so shall it be written down
again.
Many sit,
wait,
and wonder when.
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.
