the
straightforward
poem,
like
the
straightforward
person,
is
often
the
one
most
curved.
Home » Posts tagged 'writer' (Page 93)
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True Inspiration.
More often than not,
we mistake our inspiration, for
celebrity,
strangers,
the grass that’s always greener,
when in reality,
our greatest inspiration, comes from
classmates,
lovers,
past or present acquaintance,
who showed us talent we sought to mirror,
who we quickly forgot,
fully unaware,
blinded
by the riches that whisper, like
serpents,
the sweet, sweet nothings of the stage –
the merest hint of our true inspiration.
We’ve all got our own way of getting out.
It’s difficult to get out sometimes.
Like clawing at the walls of a well.
Fighting because you’re up there and I’m down here.
And even though you throw me many ropes,
they’re all covered in shit and slime.
My hands clench tightly, fingers ooze with stank
only to slide back down.
I stew in a bed of roses for a while,
picking at the petals one by one.
Then we’re back at it, ropes covered in roses, shit and slime.
I sort of use the slack from the rope to heave myself,
slowly from slime covered stone to stone,
eventually making my way out.
Only to find you sleeping next to a tree.
The rope tied tight around it’s base.
And I watch your eyes dance under your eyelids.
I’m in awe of your use of knots,
your ability to sleep so sound.
So I sit a while, next to you, and it’s peaceful there.
We’ve all got our own way of getting out.
It does not Discriminate.
It doesn’t effect you right now.
So sit back.
Relax.
And enjoy a warm Jimmy Dean Breakfast Sandwich.
A cup of Folgers, hell
have two cups.
It’s Sunday, right! What could go wrong on a Sunday?
Because the best part of waking up
is knowing it doesn’t have an effect on you.
And you’re safe.
Just save that Breakfast of Champions,
for the day your long since relevant,
and your children are up against the wall,
dying from the gross fact that it never effected you.
Twittersphere.
In short,
a postmodern peanut gallery,
with the heart of a tornado.
As senseless as a bullet.
As an AK-47.
As war.
Typical of man’s creation.
That Kurt Cobain.
He had his finger on the pulse of a generation.
And another on the trigger of a shotgun.
Depending on who you believe,
a conspiracy theory won’t bring back the dead.
A corpse doesn’t lie, it sings.
It sings all the beautiful things it couldn’t see alive.
Through sentiment.
Remembrance.
And praise.
Shedding it’s form.
It becomes an idol.
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
If he hadn’t wanted fame, Aberdeen would have gladly laid his grave.
And if not for boredom, then how could one know joy?
He was a slick cat, that Kurt Cobain.
A sly dog, indeed.
Drunk in Cyberspace.
Everything, I wanted to do,
slowly drifts away.
Clicking here, now clicking there,
it all just looks the same.
An endless maze, of travesty,
piles on each page.
But I don’t have, the guts or tact
or sincerity to look away.
And each time that, I tell myself
tomorrow’s another day.
The calendar, it flips and turns,
yet I just stay the same.
Consciously, predicting that
in sunlight I will change.
Then by the moon, retracting that
I’m drunk in cyberspace.
If nothing really mattered
then I guess
nothing really matters
and so if nothing really matters…
Then why the hell do I keep on trying to explain?
Why the hell do I keep on
this way?
They tell me thanks, rinse and repeat
all I can do is laugh.
There was a time, when I was sure
there seemed, some way back.
A charlatan, a debutante,
perfection on a screen.
Deeper in, still deeper now
a web of misery.
And by the time, I’ve had my fill
and walking on a cloud.
The city lights, extinguished by
eyelids that do bow.
It’s not a curse or act of God,
that craves some kind of change.
But the terror dreams of darkness,
while drunk in cyberspace.
The cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple…
But.
A Balancing Act.
Systems.
The idea of systems haunts me as of late.
How everything, big or small,
basically has a system.
Intricacies, that
develop over time,
through trial and error,
and eventually form a path.
A system.
And if properly put to work, should work, right?
Shouldn’t it?
It should, yes, you’re right…
No…It…Wait, oh who gives a shit.
What are you even talking about?
Systems. I’m talking about systems.
Big deal dummy…
Google. Facebook. MSNBC.
Rent is due and you’re stuck thinking about systems?
So to every system there must be a creator.
Like playing God.
It’s no use.
This system is flawed!
All system’s are flawed…
If all systems are flawed,
there must be a fail-safe,
duct tape,
a conscience.
And if properly put to work, should work.
Shouldn’t it?
In a perfect world yes, but this is not a perfect world.
This is not a perfect system.
For many,
this is,
a balancing act,
that in public, seems rational, adjusted,
a well oiled machine, though
further research shows,
a haunting dilemma – difficult to admit –
between two parties,
whom share the same skin.
Who share the same system.
The Sincerity of Our Chains.
Unlocked.
A brief wave of empathy.
A surge of relief.
Icy cold goosebumps.
Cover to cover.
Nearly 600 pages like chains.
And now, Freedom?
I beg to differ, you see…
The shackles leave marks,
indeed.
Deep reddish grooves on ankles, on wrists.
So tender, the flesh.
They are much more cozy than I see elsewhere.
They are much more honest, you see…
I leave them off a short while.
To make a sandwich. To use the loo. To make chump change.
But know I must put them back on again.
Because freedom isn’t frolicking aimless as a loon.
Freedom is trusting the sincerity of our chains.
Knowingly, locked.
Let’s call this one Gibberish, for dramatic effect.
We are what we make ourselves.
Prophets. Martyrs. Fools.
There is no difference.
If it sells, it sells.
And the more grotesque, the better.
Greater pain equals greater possibilities.
Blood is not just blood, it’s profit.
It has and will always be.
The grand illusion.
Story time before the big sleep.
You see,
faith can be a very clumsy thing.
A very scary thing.
But it doesn’t make a difference either way.
Prophets will stay prophets.
Martyrs will stay martyrs.
And fools remain fools.
How does declaring a child a man make him any less a child?
It doesn’t.
But it sells, so it sells.
Eventually,
you get it.
We were the monsters lurking under the bed.
Words Of An Average White Male 