Poets and Schizophrenics Band-Aid

“If we took all the poets and banded them together.  Could problems arise or self-solve?”

Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?

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“What of my yet undocumented pain?  Would my own words make me sane?”

‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.

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“Living well and beautifully and justly are all one thing.” ― Socrates

“What if we all banded together today?”

Random Wordsmith

It rambles.

It rolls.

It changes from a pedigree to a troll.

Never is it about a walk in the woods on a cloudy day.

Never is it lessons from leaving a cake out in the rain.

Creations in the mind…often weary.

Word pies for the leery.

Leaving the creator with no true sense of destiny.

The rations for the irrational…never a luxury.

I assume there are worse things than rolling words up hill and letting them tumble.

Letting them go.

Silly idle hands for hyperactive thoughts…crashing into trees down below.

But I am just a laborer and pushing random words uphill…

And, that is all I’ll ever know.

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Small Town Voyeur

Through a lens,

nothing but a small town voyeur.

An inclement, practitioner, seeking a cure.

If raw or edgy could suffice.

I suppose there would be a way to sleep away the night.

Indeed it is the dark side of an allergy that watches for more.

Mine is not a sexual exercise.

Mine is being witness to the other side.

The soil.

The soot.

The broken down by time.

Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.

Anxious Commentary

Around or about…the tightness.

A spiritual choking.

A breaking down of matter.

Chomping, chewing, relentlessly.

And, spitting me out.

Here I am…’do not leave in doubt.’

Cigarette burning into the middle of night.

Supine vertigo…prompted upon an endless fright.

I awaken to a self…basquiat

Self, as a victim viewer.

I am there in her eyes.

All my sentences a scratching post…Tainted with compromise.

Georgia, On My Mind

From penned infancy to disorganized adulthood

I have tried to put into words dribble and hymn.

And, all the many, many, skeletons of wondering that took place.

I tried to put into words

What…

she did for me

when I felt misinformed on my solitary imaging.

My, my, my androgeny.

Her denim coerced all the slayings of the normal sects.

Pastel black or white.

Soon became black and white pastels with retrospect.