Don't do drugs, kids.
2004-08-06 03:23:53 ET

I can't write poetry if I've a song stuck in my head. cause ev'ryting I write gets that melody, gets that same beat follows that track till the poem's complete or I cry defeat or the reader falls a sleep, or I start to repeat.
...sigh. Fighting the urge to get up and run. To do something stupid like go buy a gun. Gun down some shop and head for the shore. Not the Atlantic, the Pacific for sure.

Kill my accountant and break all my cards Make collect calls and break some new laws Call up my parents and tell 'em I'm gone. Thanks for the degree, Can I mow your new lawn?

Maybe it's the drugs racing my veins racing my brain chasing the drain that moves my pen in a such a furious vein, curious way (serious pain?) Soon they'll abate and I re-read this page, confused that it's me
venting this rage. Save the trees the young man said as I watched him slice words in his arm and my heart just bled just wept for the poor unmarried old girls who're stumbling and fucking up baby Jesus' new world.

the boy just wept water from his veins, sugar water mixed with a dose of caffiene. A new martyr on the cross a new savior for our age. Save the trees, save the whales, and kill your TV!

I remember those days when kids played outside on metal swings and rubber tires. We're now too scared that the kids will have fun, that they'll run, and they'll play, and they'll kill everyone.

I must be getting tired cause my words now make sense. My words, they make sense but they still don't make cents. I'll end this thing now before I get too depressed, too maniac, to methodic, or start to get stressed. Maybe I'll stop when I run out

2004-08-06 09:25:15 ET

Holy poetry, Big Daddy! Did you write that? That rivals the venerable Ferlinghetti. You should free write like that more often. I think I'm in love.

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