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!

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Wanna Be Socrates, a poem

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.

It’s Wrong When It Stops Being Fun, A Poem

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.

Habit, a poem

Habit, my old friend,

Or are you my enemy?

You say habit

I hear “monotony.”

Someone else says it,

And I hear “addiction.”

Habit, you could make me a great man

Or you could cause me to self destruct.

Habit,

you are helpful,

But you can also be cruel.

Habit, you be what I tell you to be.

People Can Be Products, A Socialist Poem

People Can Be Products

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

Dare what questions are such to be asked?

Asked and then asked again!

Trivial though it be,

meaning is always the goal,

the objective,

the end.

Are we just products?

Products of anger,

reaction,

of hate,

Or are we something more?

Who are we but products?

Products of our time

and place?

We are the artists, the thinkers,

the doers, and the workers,

And in fact we are still much more

Power is a Predator (a socialist poem about living in the colonialist, racist patriarchy)

Power is a Predator

Escape is never possible,

For a mind that never shuts off.

Constant and endless flow,

Ideas upon ideas,

Questions arising ever second.

Existence is not a question,

It never was.

Existence simply is,

And survival is the question.

How do you survive,

When the powers are your predator?

So many never ask,

But many more have to.