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Poem
I believe that writing is like spilling blood out of the carotid
Onto a canvas of sponge
This sponge can never be satiated
It takes generations and trillions of miles of neurons
Just to make a stain
My marrow is strained in such a glorious fashion
In attempt to produce even more lovely RBC's
So that I may contribute but just a mere speck
On this ethereal construct

Today I saw a man with hollow eyes buying homes with the skulls of rats
These homes onced belonged to living souls
The money machine came rolling in with the disinterest of  a cow chewing cud
Masticating the precious juice from the canvas that once served
As a font of energy, an expulsion of electrons, something sacrosanct
To those who felt alive in a world consumed by dead, ridiculous intentions
Now
All of the canvas-blood-sponges have dried out in these places, and
As a result 
The universe seems to recoil back in on itself as if in fear of 
The disasterous implications

The dust seems to layer the meninges ever so slightly
Until I realize the fact that by doing so, I allow the miscreants running
This synthetic freak show of media pogrom and unheralded greed,
To stand in Pyrrhic victory

Somehow this is all
Compounded with an unaccountable need to accumulate as much 
Material nonsense as possible because it helps fill
The inexplicable void 

I just want to keep pumping blood out onto this convoluted stage, and
Scream in the ignorant face of the man arrogantly cutting others off
During rush hour as though where he needed to get to was so much more 
Important than everyone else's destination
The disconnect is here
Look into the countenances of those around you

Thankfully there are those rare souls you see periodically
With some light left behind those orbs
They haven't been made grotesque by the modern world
They have been spending time with their canvas
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