1.
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
At a millennium rolling over point,
Baby boomers 1 time, hippies turned parents.
The resurrection of second guessing an illusion of addiction.
Putting another load, having god cleanse our soul.
Complementing aspiration as only I can.
A generation beyond definition
Unconvinced the American dream isn’t a fiction of remedy.
Un-persuaded by the better life toe-to, tin man, and the
heartless lion
Could help us safely down the yellow brick road.
I need to write
Having no patience, to being a constant patient of constipation,
Constipated bullshit.
Flipping flowing words as only words of poetry can.
Writing in the 3rd person, for the 1st is hurting.
Battling the current currents of this poems sea.
Nothing invested in my own opinion.
2.
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
At a millennium rolling over point,
Baby boomers 1 time, hippies turned parents.
The resurrection of second guessing an illusion of addiction.
Putting another load, having god cleanse our soul.
Complementing aspiration as only I can.
A generation beyond definition
Unconvinced the American dream isn’t a fiction of remedy.
Un-persuaded by the better life toe-to, tin man, and the
heartless lion
Could help us safely down the yellow brick road.
I need to write
Having no patience, to being a constant patient of constipation,
Constipated bullshit.
Flipping flowing words as only words of poetry can.
Writing in the 3rd person, for the 1st is hurting.
Battling the current currents of this poems sea.
Nothing invested in my own opinion.
2.
Spoken without conviction, and you wonder why
Children hide in adult bodies.
Living under light colored contacts.
Seeing the eyes of your children’s; children.
In the pupils of my pupils
Where did I go wrong?
Decode tears formed under eyelashes pregnant with guilt.
My ideals kiss lips of smiles.
Normal is a failure of potential.
Mishandling meticulous personas.
Cutting deep streams to my wrist, remembering, how to heal.
Believe ejaculation is the only thing that comes easily.
Spoken word artist.
Non-for-profit preacher of the sorts
Cultivate minds for more mythical tales.
Wicked theology robbing the rich blind.
Trapped in reaction.
Delusions of eloquence.
Purlieu victories.
I need to write.
Bellies Blues by way of Langston Hughes.
Whitman and Maya Angelou.
W.E.B, Emerson.
Eger Allen Poe, Ossie Davis
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
My pen runs rapids before my words escape my lips,
So I’ll suffer for my pen,
In continue of the line of legacy.
Children hide in adult bodies.
Living under light colored contacts.
Seeing the eyes of your children’s; children.
In the pupils of my pupils
Where did I go wrong?
Decode tears formed under eyelashes pregnant with guilt.
My ideals kiss lips of smiles.
Normal is a failure of potential.
Mishandling meticulous personas.
Cutting deep streams to my wrist, remembering, how to heal.
Believe ejaculation is the only thing that comes easily.
Spoken word artist.
Non-for-profit preacher of the sorts
Cultivate minds for more mythical tales.
Wicked theology robbing the rich blind.
Trapped in reaction.
Delusions of eloquence.
Purlieu victories.
I need to write.
Bellies Blues by way of Langston Hughes.
Whitman and Maya Angelou.
W.E.B, Emerson.
Eger Allen Poe, Ossie Davis
I once heard that poets will write because they suffer.
And suffer because they write not by choice.
But by some divine given insight
For their pens will bleed for them
When their veins begin to dry.
Shelling out for the dried up wells.
My pen runs rapids before my words escape my lips,
So I’ll suffer for my pen,
In continue of the line of legacy.
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