My creativity is haltered, i'm stuck on a continuous train I could stop if my brain would kick in and find a exit or a object to throw in front of it but its stuck moving,thoughts over thoughts thrown away down they go, down the drain. I don't even think twice I know its not good enough for them I ask why, why isn't it good enough for them? i'm running low on fuel, im drained and my creativity is on the floor stomped all over by people I don't know, I scream for them to stop, The train came to a halt I got off it was the final stop no more room for me I was empty and useless and no good for society. but when I got off others did too. They pleaded that I bring back what I once had i cannot i stopped the train for some kind of acceptance I was on my knees for people who didn't know me and yes I was begging for them to show affection They are strangers, not friends not family but there criticism seemed more important to me. its what the people want not me.
Poetry is a food, a fueler, a filler Of that emptiness we hope to resolve Words are a chemistry, a balance, an equation For nutrition of our nonexisting soul Words- we take, we bake, we fill Ourselves too full, we are gluttons Sticky letters dissolve to Nonsense, and hang off our tongue, Always dripping, never falling I began this movement, this culinary labratory Where we mix chemicals together to Create two-dimensional poisons of ecstacy Lost in our minds, on our lips, savoring Every drop-