So much turmoil in my life- leads me to internal strife, And when that happens I often struggle- to put thoughts into a bubble. I’m often better off...taking the easy road, And waiting till I’m tired, And my mind’s Unfiltered ire- which pours straight forward on to the page- Full of electric pixilated rage, But, it’s the cowards way out, I know I can write, It just takes effort and sometimes it’s easier to pout- Then to write down what’s just got to get out.
So then my question is, Is there a poem in here- Inside me, that can worm its way out- Without a specific inspiration? I don’t know, Is it possible for me to rhyme without a pressing need to keep the time? Is the question that I pose, to myself and to my prose, A valid form of entertainment or of art? Do I write because I must or do I do so with no cause? Is a poem done this way a work of art or the art of play? Turning phrases as a twist of twisting phrases spawning lisps; If the spit that spits the pits of gutter feelings from my midst pukes forth a rhyme- Of equal lift, Then isn’t art for the artist’s sake a self indulgent purging of one’s gifts? And further more, or lisping less, Isn’t IT what IT can be without there being a being within IT? I mean, just for foodly thought, isn’t a thought of food a form painting with the brain? Or is a fish a food for thought that actually isn’t and never was, But for the moment that spanned across the lobes of it's thought-bearer? Or errrs? It’s just a question that I ask, Since questions can’t be stated and statements can’t be asked... Unless they’re automated.
Well, whadya’ know, I wrote and wrote and never spoke. I thought and thought and my art unfroze- In the instant of the flash of the fish that did not splash, But for the micro second that it stole- Of your thought's humble abode. Thank you for taking the time to indulge, my rythmnless rhyme and did you feel the time? I hope it jarred some deeper thought for its creator and those who bought- A little-Pixel time for what now I hope must seem very, very little cost.
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