I cannot even believe the poetic words I display
I scribble, post, and forget the important reason of why so easily
To be prolific and as some say gifted in poetic verse becomes a curse
Writing poetry as water rushes over ancient rocks of the river across from the shelter from humanity I built
Over time staring at coffee stains and ink blots the realization controls me that the world is black and white
The words as if water over time erode the beliefs that one man cannot make a difference
Erosion brings truth to the path of an artist that a difference in society can come within one lifetime
I am an artist who dreams of antiquity and the seven wonders of the eye.
I dream of Amazement to a world controlled by iPods and concrete jungles.
You must become callous to originality and the depth of loss to individuality to accept what is sold today.
I am at a loss for words as I get paid to sell acceptance to the soul less path of the weak minded.
My soul cannot be bought.
I dream of the hanging gardens of antiquity that look so beautiful tonight under a lazy moon of infinity and possibility.
To be bought and sold is as old as time,
And as an artist, an intellectual, and sociologist, I refuse to be bought and sold so easily.
Tonight I am the hero of my words and care not the popularity that may arise