The Writers Complex

What's next to write,

How should I entangle your eyes,

How should I birth this selections ink, to let it fall from the pelicans beak,

You may want me to provide you eyes a first persons Dark Doom,

Filled with descriptions of drugs deprssions?

 

Maybe the reader would like to play a role,

Maybe I should create a well threaded tapestry,

In a Frodo Baggins galaxy,

Far-Far away in the greatest known Final-Fantasy,

Maybe, I should lend thoughts to christian culture,

God's loving vultures,

With Angles, Lucy's, dark doves parked in the night club of the moon skies

 

Possiably, I should let my pen rest where contemporary lies,

Boil a jumbalaya of unconvicted feleons with a O.J. sigh,

Add a touch of family unkept secrects of wise guys,

With a sprinkle of Iraqi falling soldiers, where flags fly high,

 

Above all, I would like to get your attention,

Poets & Readers,  

To my petition,

On the interpretation of words and its attemps of illustration,

I am vixin to understand what is the peoples belief of a writers greatness,

Attracted to what is the proper poetic demostration,

 

So, Indict my style, in the end, will the grand jury measure me,

From the cum of the fathers, the wet sexual seed,

Mothers of who birthed the writers, who more than menstually let their thoughts bleed,

Or will you come to understand orginality,

Or is that not good enough,

Me, in relation to other writers, comes the idea of just satisfactory,

 

 I want to know!

 

Does Willie Wonka, do anything to sweeten your taste buds from my poetic factory,

Or does my question alone annocuce writer blasphomy,

 

I am asking, only asking, those who read to show your impression of the writer,

The writer who is drowning in rhythmic thought,

I can only write what I see,

Write what I sea,

A wingless poet,

What can, will my sea goals be,

(Which I mean my rhymic text bring, offspring who fly around my text like seagulls, readers like flies)

 

I write forever, line after line,

Its like their is a Bagger Vance voice pushing me to never clean soap by hand,

But to clean the plate of paper for the pen to dine,

To write hefty in quality,

Cause the readers are tired of reading trash,

And as a great writer,

This is a way to extend a apology,

(like praying to god making all things better)

 

Right where I deathly lay,

On my shoulder will be, 

(A swagger) potatoe sized chip,

Their will be a future of me recieveing praise for dayz,

On every history page,

I will add blush to philosophies sisters face,

Add words to dictionarys weight,

So, the future can lift its grace,

 

Judge, excuse me for asking,

But if I redid the bible would I join the Shackspearian everlasting?

Or would I join others false attempts in library shelves caskets,

And wasted highschool kids garbage baskets,

 

I will wait for your deliberation,

But before you leave I don't write by chance,

Or by human glance (thumbs toy excersing a writers dance),

I do what others can't,

 

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar, for concept...will love feed back

Reviews

[Flow]

I feel each has their own measuring stick as to what they feel is great, good, ok, or poor in writing. I know that certain subjects will certain types of people to respond but some subjects gets a more deeper response compared to a general, "Job well done". Some are stuck on grammar and rules as such. We are all different and how we respond to written words. For me I try to write the things about sex that most will run away from, the tabo's and forbidden sensualities of the flesh. Still some love my spiritual poetry but it is lost in the ruffles of paper that talk and praise women. We artist have to decide do we write for the reader or do we write for self. My favorite poems hardly get any attention, and I wonder why, still I am a slave to my pen as my pen is a servant of mine.

Flow~