*no matter that plain words are
my ordinary tools,
with them,
I shall scribe the small
cherish the little,
grab the middle
simplicity my golden rule,
write they say,
about what you know best,
surely in the diurnal motions,
the arc of daily commotion,
do we not all excel?
me,
just a poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally,
worldly goods expropriated
by the wind,
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly, unattended
scout the competition.
weep,
for you and I will never surpass
the giants who preceeded us,
and yet,
laugh,
cause they thought
the same as well
so I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
can't stop,
cause it's my daddy's dying curse*
addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
*no matter that plain words are
my ordinary tools,
with them,
I shall scribe the small
cherish the little,
grab the middle
simplicity my golden rule,
write they say,
about what you know best,
surely in the diurnal motions,
the arc of daily commotion,
do we not all excel?
me,
just a poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally,
worldly goods expropriated
by the wind,
where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly, unattended
scout the competition.
weep,
for you and I will never surpass
the giants who preceeded us,
and yet,
laugh,
cause they thought
the same as well
so I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
can't stop,
cause it's my daddy's dying curse*
addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******
excerpt from an old poem of mine
--------
and below a variant from 2 days ago:
Truth is like poetry. And most people f**king hate poetry.
a quote from the movie "The Big Short"
~
a screen provocation,
you laugh out loud,
mime hating yourself
that you are joiining in
tacitly acknowledges the truth
of abbreviated wisdom
you,
disguised minority of
modest disagreers,
c'mon, admission submission,
more truth in it
than deserving of argumentation
a one liner throwaway,
neatly designed,
leaves you disturbingly
probed,
thoughtfully tormented and
aroused
poetry just a vehicle,
your vice for revelation,
the critical door to open is this:
do people hate the truth?
inescapable reality
ironical probability,
truth well disguised,
in plastic shell of lying
from the Hollywood's would be poets,
an escapade from the escapists
let us not pretend
that you and I
uncaring, for by virtue of
your reading this, you are
poetry aficionado,
required to deny the lie,
and yet,
accept
the
granular view
that we are rising writing thru the wronged end of
a telescoping microscope
so I scare scar a tissue sample from my tongue
and the cells spell
this rejoinder:
all your lies are poems,
incomplete truths,
and that's why people hate poetry.
Request permission to use this poem