Subjective

stir the pot thicker than the blood dripping

from the thoughts off the top of my head

rabble rouser, true art styler,

never want to be a hero, rather be the Nero to art

*

a hunter, inflictor of pain on pain for pain's sake,

what's pain without a little tart?

jam or harlot, king or queen, has-been

who's been dipping in the salty tears of yesterday

*

never to be replayed or retread,

sorry doesn't cut it anymore, show them the door

the red one, you know the one,

the one that leads to eternal damnation or the deepest well

of nothingness

*

on the wall, a poster of a child of the overused trope of hard knocks

on the floor, a posit of a poster child of the overused trope of optimism

let's treat this like it was something both important and of no great meaning

let's treatise the very concept of important...

*

let's not?

*

Complaint after complaint... the literary giants of yesteryear,

frowning at the upstart nutjob with a pen, paper, laptop and working fingers

grief stricken, depressed, anxious, addiction-riddled and a little bit pretentious unrelentless

not a figurehead or a generational hero, not a terrorist with a small t or a sensationalist with a big list

commemorate the death of the art of speaking one's thoughts in verse, gap, verse, gap, couplet, tercet, quatrain, cinquain

whatever…

I don't care enough to stand on this hill and die for nothing that really matters.

"once upon a time there was a little squirrel, trying its hardest to reach the top of a tree. It kept failing and falling, slipping down the harsh and unapologetically tough skin of the tree, but kept trying. What does this tell you about your hopes and dreams?"

*

"what about the story of the rabbit that bounded around, wanted to be the boundless saviour of the forgotten art of play, but was pushed back, held down at every attempted leap. He grew to be the ripe old age of...who really cares? He died unhappy and starving, not for food, but for life"

*

Squirrel away, squirrel today, squirrel Plié, squander your skills, squander them today

use them for nothing, use them like that well-worn pair of shoes

or maybe the underwear you never throw out when you should

When you know how it ends before it starts, that's when it's time to

Redraw the lines between the left foot and the right foot

until your stretched beyond steady ground

*

iron clad alibi, is that what we have? iron deficient lullaby

do we really need to cry blood for our art to be considered...

do we consider anything other than the tortured ramblings

to be art or is art really subjective?

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: I know I post frequently and just wanted to say I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read my work, like it and comment on it. This is another Stream of Consciousness piece.