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 aboutContinue reading “Conceited Notion”
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 onContinue reading “Writers Block, 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 areContinue reading “What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution? 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. RainsContinue reading “Courage Is The Sweetest Lullaby, 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 forContinue reading “The Teacher As The Poet, a poem”
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, LoopContinue reading “Art in Our Times, a poem”
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.
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 nameContinue reading “Wanna Be Socrates, a poem”