Poetry
Poetry
The feeling,
the beating,
the need for the hearing,
the seeing...
Life spreads,
Waiting to be shed
Waiting to be read by the dreamless buffoons,
laughed at by the artist,
stomped on by the Feds...
Voiceless,
Parched,
nothing but a sour throat...
I choke and make it happen like I like it...
I guess I like it,
as I spit my trips and prepare my fist,
and I grabbed the last strips of paper,
because what is wriiten will come out later.
Poetic Justice,
Justice in being poetic...
You can only feel the beat of my heart by following and comprehending the rhythms.
Enough said.