the poets pride
poets of the cycles are united in the pains of the rusty gearsprockets of the machine,
dying for a chance to show everyone that art is not just a frame of mind, but a scene from a dream,
like when a black star shines brilliant into a white sky,
when your girlfriend finds a new shoulder when she knows she has to cry,
when your best friend thinks she's cool cause she's decided to be bi,
when you save someone's life, and then live to see them die,
when you plant a tree and you see how much it's grown,
when your pillow turns to clouds and and your blanket to ozone,
it's when a virus eats your muscles and it's surrounding the bone,
when you can never get where you want to be, cause you don't want to be at home,
art is like that church you went to when you were 1 day old,
the cellar where you lived with the rats and hate and cold,
the online shopping channel and all the products that they've sold,
the hundred-millionth person to be cast in the same mold,
art is that sandal,
that feather,
that dragon fly,
the heather,
the symbols,
the hands,
criminals,
and bands,
the plane ticket you found that determines your place,
the drop of blood that you leave on your face,
the intricate universe packed full of space,
the times you eat food without saying grace,
and they'll tell you it's the only family alive after the war,
the moment you realize your daughter is four,
the dog with no bullet and the unemployed whore,
stealing the rich and ignoring the poor,
the backsides of toad's eyes as they stare at headlights,
when the bloods and the crypts break out into fights,
when van gogh makes decisions on starry nights,
when the governments laugh as they write out your rights,
these poets will tell you that life is just vanity,
they'll tell we're heading for insane calamity,
they'll tell you that art is a seed in your heart,
that it starts in the heart and grows to the soul
and they'll tell you your heart plays a part in that role,
for by beating, it's spreading, and steadily feeding the mind of the seedling, which is constantly reading the concept (consistency) and reason for beating, this is the reason that virus was eating.
these poets minds are ALWAYS competing with themselves.
the truth is that these poets will not have an answer
art IS a poet, painter, musician or dancer
these poets who try to define the divine are sipping their wine from a dead vine,
their substance is none but the one that never mattered,
the spaces between sheets of glass that had shattered,
the two halves of children that zeus had scattered.
some poets though, are the grapes of the wine,
some are the products you can purchase online,
some are the black stars that just want shine,
some are the finest of a criminals crime,
the poets who know where they are going are the ones that are floating in random directions,
they are the ones who wait for love with their eyes closed,
they are the ones who travel with their imagination
these ones will tell you that art is whatever you want it to be,
it's a word, it's three letters: a r and t,
interpreted different for you than for me
poets die young, leave them be while they're here,
but don't listen to them, unless it's sincered with tears,
learn to improve from what they try to provide
as they fall with their tears on the last night they cry,
the last night of their lives,
the poets pride
dying for a chance to show everyone that art is not just a frame of mind, but a scene from a dream,
like when a black star shines brilliant into a white sky,
when your girlfriend finds a new shoulder when she knows she has to cry,
when your best friend thinks she's cool cause she's decided to be bi,
when you save someone's life, and then live to see them die,
when you plant a tree and you see how much it's grown,
when your pillow turns to clouds and and your blanket to ozone,
it's when a virus eats your muscles and it's surrounding the bone,
when you can never get where you want to be, cause you don't want to be at home,
art is like that church you went to when you were 1 day old,
the cellar where you lived with the rats and hate and cold,
the online shopping channel and all the products that they've sold,
the hundred-millionth person to be cast in the same mold,
art is that sandal,
that feather,
that dragon fly,
the heather,
the symbols,
the hands,
criminals,
and bands,
the plane ticket you found that determines your place,
the drop of blood that you leave on your face,
the intricate universe packed full of space,
the times you eat food without saying grace,
and they'll tell you it's the only family alive after the war,
the moment you realize your daughter is four,
the dog with no bullet and the unemployed whore,
stealing the rich and ignoring the poor,
the backsides of toad's eyes as they stare at headlights,
when the bloods and the crypts break out into fights,
when van gogh makes decisions on starry nights,
when the governments laugh as they write out your rights,
these poets will tell you that life is just vanity,
they'll tell we're heading for insane calamity,
they'll tell you that art is a seed in your heart,
that it starts in the heart and grows to the soul
and they'll tell you your heart plays a part in that role,
for by beating, it's spreading, and steadily feeding the mind of the seedling, which is constantly reading the concept (consistency) and reason for beating, this is the reason that virus was eating.
these poets minds are ALWAYS competing with themselves.
the truth is that these poets will not have an answer
art IS a poet, painter, musician or dancer
these poets who try to define the divine are sipping their wine from a dead vine,
their substance is none but the one that never mattered,
the spaces between sheets of glass that had shattered,
the two halves of children that zeus had scattered.
some poets though, are the grapes of the wine,
some are the products you can purchase online,
some are the black stars that just want shine,
some are the finest of a criminals crime,
the poets who know where they are going are the ones that are floating in random directions,
they are the ones who wait for love with their eyes closed,
they are the ones who travel with their imagination
these ones will tell you that art is whatever you want it to be,
it's a word, it's three letters: a r and t,
interpreted different for you than for me
poets die young, leave them be while they're here,
but don't listen to them, unless it's sincered with tears,
learn to improve from what they try to provide
as they fall with their tears on the last night they cry,
the last night of their lives,
the poets pride