Modern Times

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.

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When The Artist Gets It Wrong

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.

The Burden of Structure

The Burden Of Structure For The Artist

To bring but one pause

to the constant scream that plays in my thoughts,

that is all I ask.

Is peace so escapable?

So avoidable?

So unwanted?

I want to lay forth

and spew the excess realities

that burden me to this day.

Creation becomes an addiction,

there is no metaphor there.

I will stop this repetition,

for I envy the artists

for whom structure was no burden.

Writers Block, A Poem

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? A Poem

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, a poem

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, a poem

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.