Poetry is not a joke
Wanna get metaphysical?
Wanna express yourself?
Wanna be real?
Wanna let the world know your pain?
Wanna let the world feel your happiness?
Wanna share your triumphs and tribulations?
Do it.
Live, love, feel, share.
Poetry is a joke; the punchline is, that it's the most important joke ever told.

The zone, is another world, another state
Not zoned-out, zoned-in
It's deep -- the words flow from a source like a never-ending waterfall
It's etheral -- the subject matter comes from everywhere
It's outlandish -- some of the things you write may seem... odd... but that's fine, they are odd, you are odd, you're zoned.
It's death-defyingly wild.
It's right -- because when the words flow, when the topics abound, when your writing is freeky – it means you’re expressing
Being in the zone is pure expression
Like a factory line - the poems just churn out.
Not processed pieces, works of art.
The zone is a private Italian workshop located in your mind where suits and sportscars are replaced by words and stanzas.

Definition: Poetry that does not rhyme or have a regular meter
Free verse is not just poetry
Free verse is an expression
Free verse is an escape
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's lawlessness
Poets become Jesse and Billy; they break rules, they break hearts, they break tradition.
The difference is their words are far more cutting than a bullet can ever be.
The beauty in free verse poetry is it's adventure
Poets become Columbus and  Sacagewea; they break barriers, they explore new lands, they become wild.
They explore the boundless blank page rather than the limited natural world.
But the real beauty in free verse poetry, is it's structure.
The structure of a free verse poem is new and varying every single time.
The reader not only yearns to find the meaning of the poem, but the dual meaning of the structure.
Definition: self-expression and puzzlement of the mind and for the soul

Why do we have a sick obsession with fleeting encounters and quick passions
We brush the surface of interaction

We brush lips
we brush hands
we brush lives yet
never pressing the surface
we never press our passions

We need to press our lips
we need to press our ambitions
we need to press our hands
we need to press our lives into symbiosis.

We are scared for what happens after the blissful, brief, mysterious moment
what happens once the surface is broken

We fear rejection.
We err toward safety- to minimal contact- minimal exposure- minimal risk
Our fragile continence’s are limiting our life- our passion- our love.
Turn down the offer for fleeting life, fleeting passion, fleeting love.
Dare to press deeper- life has more to offer than mitigated risk and passing romances.

I’ve been cured of my passion, my drive, my power.
Where has my sickness gone?
The push behind my brain, the pressure upon my artistic uvula has been relieved.
  
I threw up words, stanzas, poems.
I barfed- poetic-*****.
Pure-unadulterated *****
I was content, fulfilled- or rather- emptied.
The bug has flown from its host; my well has run dry

I don't wish to be cured
I want to *****, puke, ****- more lyrics than ever before.
The world is in need of sick poets, deathly ill individuals.
What sick vaccine is eradicating our precious uncommon cold?

A cleansed world is one without expression, without freedom, and without the most beautiful and necessary illness we fondly christen as: Poetry.

Volcanic destruction. 2 words
A volcano destroys the citadel. 5 words
A tiny volcano destroy the movie-set citadel look-alike 10 words
A paper machet volcano spurts water and melts the miniature ice-city for a home movie 15 words
Did i amplify or detract?