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The mercury 11:24 p.m. 2005-11-13 regurgitated emotion into a placid microphone this inanimation entails inner peace and the tranquility of the catastrophic unfeeling. They shout and they rant and their words are stirring even in their loss of significance. Through the abundance of description the simplicity of the true meaning is burnt to ash and scattered. Original, maybe. Creative yes. Insightful... so rare. Watching unlikely poets pouring out ruination and ruminations in certain voices, unaware of thier uncertainty, the draw is on the ceiling these vague lines that define art... and they're too wrapped up in the words to notice. The faster you spill your guts the louder they scream for you and the overwhelming power of your voice makes you weep, and its beautiful because its your own expression of self but... but what if you finished those sentences that faded into static? How can i speak when i know that every word is birthed from a blind visionary... how can we spill our hearts when we know that what we say is so uncertain? But... there it is, we speak on pouring words into this patient microphone and into the ears of the starving intellectuals that cannot understand the base life behind the rest of it. I could rant at you for hours but really... what's the use my dear poets. "I am poetry" back & forth |