A stream of consciousness expressed in free-form, lyrical prose like a flurry of fevered notes on an electric guitar. Wailing, soaring, dipping, crushing, melting the faces of the reader and listener simultaneously, conveying the undeniably bittersweet passion of a scorned entity, a sheltered soul stumbling through the mist covered wilderness of a forsaken realm. Drowning in a bed of fire and burning in an ice-ridden abyss, perpetually perplexed by the putrid societal wreckage one must trip over for the duration of their conscious years.
Explosions of light and bursts of enlightenment getting shrouded in shadows, not perceivable to flawed pupils but interpreted only through the minds eye and the scarred heart; the torn, ripped, bleeding heart, circulating life force through ice cold veins, a force wrought with a searing, unrelenting agony perpetuated indefinitely from the center of a scarred soul. Charred remains of the distant past below, and the billowing, lightning filled clouds of an uncertain future above, rendering all those privy to the nonsense of the wordy slop simultaneously horrified and uplifted. The disgusting servitude of painful thoughts clashing with a burning optimism to right wrongs and calibrate self-defeating mindsets into an explosion of tortured creative energy.
Writing words to write words, or writing words to write words with a message arguably too absurd to understand and too vague to comprehend, verbs and nouns bouncing off the empty halls of a lonely mind set ablaze from the trials and tribulations of a world gone awry. Through the alleyways of misfortune and self-doubt one must trek, pushing forward with the perseverance to succeed despite the dog-eat-dog inferno of cultural waste all around. To scale the skyscrapers of success, ascending to new heights of personal triumph and leaving the ministers of manipulation far below on filthy, trash-filled streets. To abandon the mental weights burdening the justice and freedom of a fruitful existence, harvesting deep from the garden of artistic expression, yet toppling from the tops of skyscrapers back to the streets below. Wandering through the mists of the city, needing a ticket to an unknown destination, a ride to the next foot note of one's pointless existence, perhaps. Mind growing weary, feet growing tired, so....I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Nah, forget it...yo holmes, to Bel Air!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie "Yo holmes smell ya later!" I looked on my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
Explosions of light and bursts of enlightenment getting shrouded in shadows, not perceivable to flawed pupils but interpreted only through the minds eye and the scarred heart; the torn, ripped, bleeding heart, circulating life force through ice cold veins, a force wrought with a searing, unrelenting agony perpetuated indefinitely from the center of a scarred soul. Charred remains of the distant past below, and the billowing, lightning filled clouds of an uncertain future above, rendering all those privy to the nonsense of the wordy slop simultaneously horrified and uplifted. The disgusting servitude of painful thoughts clashing with a burning optimism to right wrongs and calibrate self-defeating mindsets into an explosion of tortured creative energy.
Writing words to write words, or writing words to write words with a message arguably too absurd to understand and too vague to comprehend, verbs and nouns bouncing off the empty halls of a lonely mind set ablaze from the trials and tribulations of a world gone awry. Through the alleyways of misfortune and self-doubt one must trek, pushing forward with the perseverance to succeed despite the dog-eat-dog inferno of cultural waste all around. To scale the skyscrapers of success, ascending to new heights of personal triumph and leaving the ministers of manipulation far below on filthy, trash-filled streets. To abandon the mental weights burdening the justice and freedom of a fruitful existence, harvesting deep from the garden of artistic expression, yet toppling from the tops of skyscrapers back to the streets below. Wandering through the mists of the city, needing a ticket to an unknown destination, a ride to the next foot note of one's pointless existence, perhaps. Mind growing weary, feet growing tired, so....I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said fresh and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Nah, forget it...yo holmes, to Bel Air!" I pulled up to the house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie "Yo holmes smell ya later!" I looked on my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
This post first appeared on Sweet Funky Freedom (Conspiracy Humor Blog), please read the originial post: here
