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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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