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The Arctic Monkeys rattle my brain
nearly into a trance
while the lyrics cut
into my subconscious,
leaving me just a hint of sober

while she's sleeping, I slave
bleed my brain into this blank screen,
into this ******* machine,
so my feelings can be made public,
yet for the most part, unseen

it's odd, you know, I feel
further isolated, yet somehow,
part of something bigger, something,
I don't know, eternal,
when I feed this dysfunctional family
I'm a starving technician, because my profession doesn't pay, rather it robs me of my sleep, my peace, and some of my sanity
Meticulously making milestones,
Don’t chase me,
Dripping dropping side roads of thoughts,
My train is racing,
Until it is up end by life,
The beat and time I’ve worked for entirely,
Andres Martinez Jul 2018
I often contemplate
I weigh out the pros and cons
is it worth it?
The anguish,the pain
restless nights , Heavy thoughts
then again if it works
The tenderness,the joy
The peaceful nights ,the bliss
all up to me really
But I can't seem to understand what I have to do
Serenity seems like an impossible task and stability just seems like a myth
But I know I'm the captain it's my ship I'll go down with a smile and realize it was all worthwhile
Softly Spoken May 2017
They say artists
are tortured
Also literally
Some create through chaos
Out of seeds of destruction comes
a harsh beauty born of the artisans
experience of the world
Some express through their tears
their captivity, and from this
brutality again comes beauty
emotive threads bind us
it's soft ether numbing us
Driving us to tears
To apathy or
to death
Or to Art
As a means to fight for
something beautiful
A means to resist the cut of the knife
As a means to make
Something that would make her smile
Capture that glow
Make him bite his lip
to hold back tears
Make us see beyond our limited realities
And fears
Make me whole again
With stanzas, Indian ink staining our fingers
With stitches, tapestries of lives long past
With music, that can transport us to the depths of depression
As elevate us to the strata above in one refrain
With paint stained brushes
With spray on trains
Art as protest
Artists are amongst the first in those
waves of repression
cultural victims, with science
following at its heels
Persecution ******* their steps
The possibility of losing your life
for the creative output
.. and many have
let's not forget
So art is born of pain, perhaps
and some from joy as quickly
as from fear
Regardless of its origin
You know when you find that spark
You understand intrinsically
That light as brain and heart ignite
And you breathe catches, ragged, rhythmically
In your mind, alive
Exist in perfect time with appreciation
In this space for here lives Art
Be touched by the pain or joy
Sorrow or longing
Be embraced by flow
of words and style
My chest tightens
and eyes mist
This is the artists tortured soul on display
They placed it there
for me
So all could see
what was laid bare
Breeze-Mist Apr 2016
are something
we learn
at a young age
what those around us say
                becomes what we say
but words
are so much more
than our bodies
vibrating air
words tell the world
what our brain is thinking
the words we hear
              become parts of our thoughts
the words that we use
              show the world who we are
where we're from
               and what we want to show others
words written down
carry our thoughts across and through
space and time
a pen and ink
can and have
saved lives
started wars
broken hearts
and blown minds

A word of encouragement
Can nourish a man more
Than any supplement
                              A word of abuse
                              Can wound a man
           To where medicine is of no use
A word of simple compliance
Blinds the mind
                And a few of fierce rebellion
                              Become a battle cry
Maybe a few bad poems
Are less than art
But a brain releasing a cyclone into paper
Had to be a start
Maybe one day
I can find my part (s)
Until then, my mind
Wanders alongside my heart (s)
But these words
Though so little
Are only my start
This poem is basically just a portion of the random tracks of my train of thought thrown into a poem.

— The End —