The writing is the best of me and the only way I’ll ever get free.
I pull the pen out of the scabbard and thrust it deep into my chest.
The words I write while dying will be ignored because poets only get noticed once they’re no longer with us.
Was that last line a cry for help? No, of course not because I don’t need any help in saving me and I trust you can do the same for yourself.
Need to shake all of the pre-programmed sentences out of my head because my fingers are good soldiers and do precisely what they’re told.
The stream of consciousness I ride like choppy waves exemplifies just how dangerous it is to be a true artist in this untruthful place.
I’m thinking about Daniel Snethen, another bearded poet who breaks with tradition by being untraditionally gallant in his hunt for a reality that doesn’t try our souls so surreptitiously.
I wish to eat pie with him and his friend Lilly in some non-descript city where nothing can touch us, including our own shortcomings.
Be careful of the frown police who will throw you in their unfriendly jail as they judge your unhappiness as an affront to their masquerade of civility.
The writing is what gets me through. Even when the poetry isn’t advancing I’m still a poet because I’ve worn that mark since before the Israelites were led out of Egypt.
I take out my crayon and start scribbling on everything, praying some sense can be made from this elemental mess of pretense.
The words I write while living will go unnoticed because poets only get their due once they’ve proven they were only kidding and Humpty Dumpty really cannot be put back together again.
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