I just put out a cigar.
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
has drifted and this pen
gained life of some sort.
Brilliant!
Just brilliant. I feel light
and I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control
but I am in control.
Words are spilled and
thoughts are unscrambled
and apparent random phrases
are made and I make a full stop.
I read it,
I think it's a piece of ****
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on.
Wars are made and wars are ended,
revolutions are made and revolutions are ended,
empires rise and empires fall,
words are chosen and words are discarded,
but what makes it art? Honesty.
If I said everything
what I think about
every second,
People would think
that I'm insane.