It's not a tight chested flame
That blocks the throat from breathing tonight.
It's that wicked feeling
That wicked need to start something
To let my mind drive into
That cool dark place and write.
Where words flow freely
And memory plays tricks on the mind,
Splicing licked up scents
And half eaten smells
Into brilliant shades of ever more.
It's catching my breath
After the four foot nothing girl
Screams, "I ******* knew it"
Or how I didn't expect it.
People like me
Excepting every brilliant facet
The mind can shake
From the wind ripped branchs
Of its broken bow.
Poets know pain
And feel it like they lived it
with every word they read.
They splay the pungent parts of themselves
So that curious ones can smell,
Like, "The best part of*******"
Or knitted sweaters for a friend or lover
Or that Eskimos have more then 400 words for snow.
It's like how his grandfather's mind is like a rubix cube,
Or the excitement he felt
when Greg walked us through falling 400 feet to our death.
I have to be apart of this.
I have to be apart of this.
But then again what stories do I have to tell?
What awe shaking words
Can I string together to dance like poet's do?
Would my tabletop napkin notes
Lay like used ****** food particle cleansing wear
And hang out over the crowd waiting for the waitress
To mop up this obvious mess?
Would some inner meaning reveal it's self last minute,
Just to save me from this duress?
When in truth it's just that in words I found a voice that screams
It won't shut the **** up
And if I don't let it out
It wonders to the restricted parts of me.
So I walk it like a dog across digital pages
Chicken scratch love note to girls I'll never meet.
Paint my world for perfect strangers
To lie waste to and judge like writing poetry is for the weak.