I was able to fool myself there for a little bit
The fraudulent thought was constant
  However, my penmanship captured a consistent internal beratement
But every new piece is the same 'ol shiit
It just pours out different
Duplicate content no matter the faucet
But it's only ever water coming outta the spigot
Forming from the origin of a recurring script
With only a singular way to interpret
You're only going to get one thing from an unchanging mindset
Just gets reworded before print
"Maybe they won't notice it"
"If I rearrange it it'll at least look different"
But the retreating interest is evident
Leading to the realization that was destined to hit
"They've found my secret"
"This pony only has one trick"
Should have paid closer attention to it
I lie and say it's wit,
Which I know is bull shiit
Because I couldn't and wouldn't argue if you called it redundant
The absolute of my failure is pungent
On my best day I'm still repugnant
Any new muse goes out of its way to be absent
Mostly due to the subject,
That's me,
Becoming complacent
Setting anchor in what was my escapement
Befriending my replacement
I wouldn't suggest it
But I ate it
So now I gotta ingest it

©2024

Does a poem write itself?
Do they exist before created?
In essence, existing all around us
Absorbed into the psyche
Processed through the brain
Sent to a hand
Finished through the tip of a pen
Too then again
Be consumed by another human person
Producing a new translation
A different interpretation
But there's limits to randomization
Will we ever get to the point where every thought has been expressed?
Every possible sentence arrangement has been recorded and sent to the press?
Is there still the possibility that an original thought can be had?
It's a silly concept but maybe
One day writers block will be victorious
There's only so many different ways that these words can be organized into
Though, I can't imagine what that'll look like
When every thought has been thought through
When nothing's new
Will it still continue?

©2024

Old Man Joe says,
Black and white is the art form,
When images can be captured,
Rendered in color.

To him,
The true art is in the frame,
The composition,
The contrast,
Light versus dark.

He says color makes it an image,
But monochrome makes it a treasure,
Such simplicity,
Relying on such grey,
To convey…

A story?
An emotion?
A statement?

Black and white,
If life were only that simple,
As it is filled with pigments,
A spectrum of *******,
To him.

My dear friend detests,
The rendition of color.
Through the glass,
He sees nothing but shades,
Of nothing.