I can’t hear what you’re saying anymore
Because you all sound the same
What happened to originality?
When poems didn't always reference the sun, tidal waves, and ever abiding seas?
What happened to poems filled with truth, artists that don’t lie
It seems that all art work sounds exactly the same; love, pain, suffering, and then you die
Why can’t you spit the truth across your pages
Why can artists no longer write things about the past ages
How hard is it to let the ink spill-
In such a way that tells what you real feel?
All the ******* lies convincing people your art is... “art”
Well, it’s no longer original, it no longer comes from the heart
Your mind is your own, if you just be yourself you’d see
Not all artist “dot their I's and cross their T’s”
It’s sloppy, its raw and it’s real, breathe truth into your words
Because all we really are is words;
what you speak is everything that’s heard.