What goes up must come down
Especially egos.
Check the ego, kill the ego.
This is what buddha taught.
Or is this more gibberish from a mad mind?
Is it the lies we tell ourselves that make our opinions?
“Don’t talk politics this holiday.” Is the credo of the people
Who don’t want you to look in their closet.
You won’t just find skeletons in their,
You’ll find their klan hoods to.
So often we are told
“It’s human nature.”
“It’s always been like this.”
“There is nothing I can do.”
You’ll cringe at a meme but not at these words?
Does jaded fear and hopelessness
Not shiver the spine of the unhumbled optimist?
It does.
So often we are told things that are not true.
There are no poetics here,
I am just tired.
Tired of hearing it,
So tired.
20 years in hell.
6 months in purgatory.
Our was it just 1 month in county jail?
Time means nothing when your in shackles
Even though it is all they give you.
The filth and grime on the bottom of my bare foot replaces
any dignity I had.
And the cold, do not make me mention the cold,
Just the thought chills my corpse,
Not my body, I am no longer alive in this place.
They call it prison, but it is actually a morgue.
We are not people, we are corpses, and the cold preserves us.
Hell is only hot in the summer, usually it’s cold.
20 years in hell.
3 strikes your out.
20 years in hell.
The Old Songs in The New Day
The song that is playing
reminds me of a long forgotten philosophy,
a former method that was never lost
because it never could be found.
This is not literature from a street corner,
nor is it a contrived notion to put meaning
where it won’t belong.
So easy to forget,
too much to wonder,
question,
ask.
All production, all creation,
just a matter of will,
or privilege.
Discipline is such an ugly word,
and it does not echo.
The song had no echo either.
It gets repeated
and fades more and more
into the background each day.
As the song started long ago,
it won’t stop for a very long time.
It is hard to create
when creation is a burden.
I say we all create.
To make something
something totally from the self,
no matter what motive,
no matter,
another song,
another creation,
another question,
and another echo.
This time it lasts
just a little bit longer.
Here we are,
Another conceited notion
At hope for humanity.
Wrapped in delusion
And on the other side ignorance.
Where heart doesn’t exist there is only stone.
No one cares when you break stone,
No one should.
Stone has no use except for building,
Heart brings us family, light, and love.
But who cares about any of that,
Just another poetic disposition from the cliche starving artist.
Just another conceited notion, that people might actually be good.
Modern Times
Much can be said
of the dimension of time in our times,
Our messy haired Aristotle
was right for once.
Gravity and forces of nature and such,
Fear of the uncertain standards,
and “dying” mediums.
What can be said of our time?
Our age?
Not the one of beautiful nonsense,
We are a time but of constant gasps.
Gasps at the unspoken dialogues,
And painful arguments long overdue,
So what can be said?
Much,
Much can be said and much more,
But words, only words.
Selfless Expression
Forgotten means of expression,
Therefore no self expression ordained.
What is the difference between either?
It is self.
Obvious, no?
yet not.
Yet never be distilled in the heart and minds
of self and ideal idols.
Wasting on the cultural construct,
On the timing of lost control,
Of lost self.
A repeated, tired theme,
and old ideal.
All of them themes repeated.
A constant cycle.
Today it breaks.
Today the cycles circle no more,
Old idols fall when they have no truth
or honor.
We live in the era where old idols fall,
And justly so.
The machine breaks down,
so do our machine minds.
To breakdown in secret,
In toil and pain,
Perspective is one thing,
And shame wastes time.
No victim deserves the shame,
No child.
We live in the era where our idols fall,
And it’s justly so.Identity
Fix and free thy self from yourself.
Indulge for you and not validation.
A validated lie is a lie all the same,
even when we call it Identity.
So break the chains,
and be free from the lies
The lies that are, hold, and make Identity.
When The Artist Gets It Wrong
For long and often
I have been compelled
To thrust my ideas forth onto the page.
Long collections and high stacks of notebooks
Make up abstract chronicles of my psyche.
Have I put these words down before?
Am I but a pawn of repetitions?
A nature I cured myself into?
Is my corner my own?
I was long fascinated by Marx,
Now I know what he meant.
What I have done and yet to do,
With all of life’s potential and conclusions
constantly playing
in their loud, auspicious ways.
I cannot ask for help,
Nor can I describe the sensation.
Ever so more I try,
And ever so often I fail.
Cannot an individual live,
In his own personal state of revolution?
Whom do I ask?
Who do I tell?
What truth is there
now that a key board is a soapbox?
Little it seems,
But I was wrong,
I was very wrong.
