#poetsandartists
Trying too hard to write something perfect
None of my words belong on the page
Maybe that means I should write something
But even as I am writing this, I know I could do better
I should do better
I…can’t do better, can I?
Incoherency is the cost
Of me trying to write when I am not in the zen state of mind
Does my writing mean anything if
it’s jumbled? Does it mean anything if I don’t entirely understand what I was trying to say?
I… maybe I should…
Stop.
But my thoughts keep racing
Do they matter?
I think they do.
I know they do.
Measure my dreams in grains of sand
A thousand nothing more than
The worth of a single pebble—
In the belly of a ravenous koi
Why must I always
feel like I am dying
The rusted cogs
Ceasing to breathe—
My conviction
Grinding to a halt?
Madness eats
My crime is life
A reflection
Mirrored
In bloody sheen
It’s all too sterile,
All too white gray
The marked path
Traveled by droves
of certain men
Without value
I continue on
Diminished by
My still-beating heart
For on the rooftop
There is a weed
Damned be its growth
In direct path
Of an unforgiving sun
An Internal Dispute From Sleep Deprivation
Blatant words befalling blue lips
Smeared the color of sadness
Tri-coated depression
What is art to sadness but apples to applesauce
thefortymillionsomethingpoems
Some statement minus punctuation and declarations of woeful broken love
Gorge upon the sales of music to public ears
I gave my blood, the likes which you’ve never seen and apparently do not want
Pages of fine ink multitudesofwordsmeaninglesswords
The alternative framework lost—
Eaten in the mainstream, some cherry picker we have to thank for this
Poets ought to rip the world to shreds with a pen
Splash ink onto pavement, blacken the world into a deep void
Gross schemes, where the fuck is reality?
I accidentally threw it down the garbage disposal
But the corporations forced my hand
The meaningless throb the echoes of time ticking sand
Mind wrenching melting numbness pain
Contradictory hell
What more is left to do? What more is to be achieved?
Light a metal garbage can,
Set all the books on fire
And all the art as well.
Ichor of old gods
Pitter-patters solemnly
Gaia drinks her fill
—
Deafened ears
Silent eyes
Rippled waters—
Reflecting murky skies
What remained
Laid in sullened tune
—With calla lilies
In godless demise
My organs wrung
Then clotheslined—
Like some
common rag
Discarded lungs—
Airbags for the worms
And my
once sharp tongue
Sits ’tween teeth
Delicately dead
This damp cavern
Punctured by
A singular watery tree
The branches splay
Beams of light
Where I lay—
Skin haloed
in mossy wreaths
Flowers before dusk
Curling from darkness,
How you shrink
So timidly inward
You fill yourself
With seas of fears
Though occupying
Minimal space
I would
Kiss your petals
If you
Loved me
||
Some nights I crave release
In loosed muscles
Over the beaming lights—
Polluted city skyline
Standing atop a tightrope
Roaming like a minor god
My insides disemboweled—
Numbing immortality
I want to linger in apathy
No inhibitions,
without criminal feeling—
Lonely contentedness
Breathing with intention—
Aeolus, commanding wind
My soul is drunk
Filled to the brim—
With hopes and dreams
Peace with the worms,
Consciousless things
How I’d like to join them
In holy matrimony
With the earth
As the skies weep
Crank me
Jack-in-the-box
Cricks of rusty parts
As music tinkles
Softly
Through floorboards
Dusty as the attic
And the locked chest
From where it came
Your fingers could
Draw lines
Into the age
Of that wooden box,
The one
With a precarious lid
It delights in your touch
Waits for the skip
Of your heart
When anticipation
Is empty
And
P O P
.
.
.
.
The spring dashes
Firmly into your eye
A lone thing
Without a clown’s company
Reinvention
Feels like a sin
i t’ s backpedaling
Don’t I deserve
To live
Without
A
Hi-polymer
Eraser
?
I gathered people like dewdrops
Collect upon a lonely leaf
They were made in the clouds
Of pollution and acid rains
I beckoned and waved—
The wind forced my hand
Yet upon my lonely branch
Ne’er a hopeful bird did land
Only dewdrops grew
Little parasitical things
They burned and ate
And I turned yellow with grief
Pocked with holes
In sickly sheen
Death beckons
And I hesitate
But the solid form
Appeared
So comforting
A being
A rubber wristband
Encircling a
Pale arm
Extended graciously
A plain white
Sterile shirt
Hung loosely
’round their form
And bed hair,
Bright eyes,
A smile
Innocently wise
I would lay
In their embrace
Nestled wordlessly
Drifting
Into peace
If Life had not
Eaten my soul
The Struggle for Originality
I found myself knee deep in poetry
Not knowing which direction to go
I settled, staying ’neath nonexistent leaves
Telling myself I’ll remain
Until the frost becomes much too cold—
Then, I could write of my
Fucking goddamn depression
Bass drop
It’s three o’clock in the morning
And I’ve been kissing individual framed photos
In my shrine of Poe Whitman Plath
I harbor such a pretentious heart
I could not bear to part with mediated prose
(Man these tumblr poets
And their penchant for simplistic thought)
—I’ve drunk so much irony in my tea
I can no longer taste its potent punch
I am so well-versed in the craft,
All my alliteration attempts are absolutely art
My words are like stars, night, dewdrops, love, eyes, the sunskyandmoon
I can write so fresh, I’ll write of farts
I’ve nothing to prove, nothing to lose
Whether I rhyme or not—
Conform or not—
There is nothing to gain
In being a contrarian.