if writers didnt write, theyd probably kill you
first chance, second rate rant
word tap dance, for apoor pathetic so-called artist
who cant part with his pen much less a stamp
for alast completed story, or ascript to send
to compete with the other whores
for ascore or a suck-cess or a buck or even a mention
in a boring literary scene magazine
(but what do you say to a scratch-and-sniff sticker
that bickers with itself about what the whiff of wealth
would smell like and thus avoids all the healthiest nostrils?)
writing is for fossils/writing is for cave-dwellers/writing is for sinners
and condemned-to-hellers
writing is for those with desire but no practical brain/writing is for those with little common sense but intense joy and pain, slaying a small herd of personal demons, playing the nerd, connecting feelings with rhymes/writing is for the alive, alone and absurd, the comfortably disturbed,
somedays the word is a normal noun and some an action verb
spending most kicked to the curb
where the ghost of self-esteem seems to cling like a leaf in the gutter
after a flutter of rain
uttering a seemingly nonsense rant
the host becomes the panting poetry king of puppy dog pain
writing is a badge of honor, a beautiful tattoo, a birthmark,
and a heart-shaped, never to be excised or erased stain
its a good thing most writers write
cause if not i think theyd need a knife
to cut up the human feelings they see
and serve them on trays to you and me
and they might have to slice you open to reveal and heal
the thoughts you are concealing
and thats not right, to just leave you there, dead
if writers didnt write
theyd probably kill you
right here,
tonight
instead_______________________________
[deleted, then returned and edited for length:
this is post poem rambling about the origins of this piece which i wrote last november while i was working an overnight shift at a placement/residential treatment/school for adolescents who were removed from their homes by the dept of social svcs or probation or mental health. i was accepting a new career path, realizing my dreams of being in a writer or filmmaker, at least as a living, were fading but my reasons for writing were becoming more apparent to me....and i've never cut or owned a bunch of knives, but have always had a morbid fascination with them...]
first chance, second rate rant
word tap dance, for apoor pathetic so-called artist
who cant part with his pen much less a stamp
for alast completed story, or ascript to send
to compete with the other whores
for ascore or a suck-cess or a buck or even a mention
in a boring literary scene magazine
(but what do you say to a scratch-and-sniff sticker
that bickers with itself about what the whiff of wealth
would smell like and thus avoids all the healthiest nostrils?)
writing is for fossils/writing is for cave-dwellers/writing is for sinners
and condemned-to-hellers
writing is for those with desire but no practical brain/writing is for those with little common sense but intense joy and pain, slaying a small herd of personal demons, playing the nerd, connecting feelings with rhymes/writing is for the alive, alone and absurd, the comfortably disturbed,
somedays the word is a normal noun and some an action verb
spending most kicked to the curb
where the ghost of self-esteem seems to cling like a leaf in the gutter
after a flutter of rain
uttering a seemingly nonsense rant
the host becomes the panting poetry king of puppy dog pain
writing is a badge of honor, a beautiful tattoo, a birthmark,
and a heart-shaped, never to be excised or erased stain
its a good thing most writers write
cause if not i think theyd need a knife
to cut up the human feelings they see
and serve them on trays to you and me
and they might have to slice you open to reveal and heal
the thoughts you are concealing
and thats not right, to just leave you there, dead
if writers didnt write
theyd probably kill you
right here,
tonight
instead_______________________________
[deleted, then returned and edited for length:
this is post poem rambling about the origins of this piece which i wrote last november while i was working an overnight shift at a placement/residential treatment/school for adolescents who were removed from their homes by the dept of social svcs or probation or mental health. i was accepting a new career path, realizing my dreams of being in a writer or filmmaker, at least as a living, were fading but my reasons for writing were becoming more apparent to me....and i've never cut or owned a bunch of knives, but have always had a morbid fascination with them...]
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Anyways, no worries buddy.