Its not complicated
Its not complex
Writing does not mean thesaurus + dictionary
Equals poetry
You can keep it simple...let it freeflow
Y'know?
You spew verbage at me like an existential arsenal
Of pronouns, adjectives, and fragment sentences
This is poetry, its not an arms race
This isn't a showdown, a slam to undercut your repetoire of description
Your flare, your creme de le creme of literary depiction
If you think I'm packing heat, its only the fire from my mouth
The fiery narrative rolling off my tongue, spewing contextual ideas
Visionary pursuits into this illusionary war of mental pursuits
You're rolling up cannons of Frost, Keats, Shelly, and Poe
Decrying my prose of despair, depression and woe
My words are not epic feats to immortalize me in a $5.00 novella
To rot and rest on a Wal-Mart shelf of modern poetica
I write to give release on the pressure valve of my mind
To toxic spill the thoughts and ideas
We're all writers, all philosophers of paper and pen
Describing the world on Waffle House napkins
In the words of the late Heath Ledger
"Why so serious?"
This is unfiltered, unfettered, uncontrolled word vomit
Nuclear fallout from the atomic bomb of uncensored thought
My prose, my words, my vision of the sonnet and narrative
Pulls not from some attempt for recognition and praise
It's so I don't blow this shit up like its Taihitti with French Manhattan Projects
So while you're still reeling, still weapon dealing your novella
Of counter stroke and tongue flex of venomous malcontenting lines
My mind isn't funneling your verbage, your attempt to tell me
Its not a pattern...its not meter....its not rhyme
This isn't kindergarten and I don't color in the lines
I live in a world colored by Kool-aid phrases and /4/chan references
Of magical school girls, Gundam offtakes, and Fisting of the North star death scenes
Of boom headshots, Desert Eagles and prayers, with a smattering of calls for 'Medic'
I exist in a realm of 50k minus fucking dkps and Onyxia wipes
Take my pod rolling and gate camps, my zoomed reticule on your skull fragments
With a Busta Wolf and 'Are you OK?' in bad Engrish
Of FAIL trolling, glib comebacks, and suddenly blind saging
For you to try and cordone me off into 'meter and measure'
Here is my diatribe of rebellious heiniousity
I'm not here for a showdown or turf war of prolific theorization
I am in this place for the breakdown of static formation
The entropic denial of rudimentary reasoning
I am here to write, to speak
And if you're here to shoot me down
Then come at me with your boomsticks of condemnation
And I'll counter with mediocre procrastination
In the form of the simple words of a layman's Voltaire
Saying "...whatever" |
Submission Name: The Dig
