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03-02-07, 11:41 AM | #1 | |||||||
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"Write When it Happens: Write Now"
IP: 4655 126D
"Write When it Happens: Write Now"
by Switch (The Poet) In the wake of my awakening I chose to write so loopholes might hang from my daughter’s ears during a future fixed within prejudices unseen …to show my sons what happens when you corner a monster or when they’re the monster being cornered …so a piece of me can sow seeds just in case I die before I can plant them …to revive flat lines on the page paralyzed from thoughtlessness tossing logs in the fire of my transcendence warming my feet on high clouds I write to share the anguish of a man with his shadow ten paces ahead of him setting canvases aflame indoors with temperatures so high, mirages are forced in my line of sight… Visions of old men rocking in cardboard cradles in winter whirlwinds… to children igniting fire arms twice their weight glazing innocent blood on their acne-free cheeks I write as a soldier of surface tension delaying eruptions until I reach a pen to spew through… I’ve sketched schematic graphs of tomorrow mapping out what could be…so giving up is illogical …transpiration a given I’ve penned my obsession of time yet only curing my craving of it as I still count grains of sand sliding through hourglasses trying to paint masterpieces on 8x10 inch sheets of paper in efforts to place it inside a six foot time frame I write to document soliloquies though my own soul gives me the cold shoulder because of this internal polygamy …there’s no place to retreat… I’ve written to fill in white and black chessboard squares with abandoned pawns and knights two fallen kings…a game with no finish I hold this pen to wean suckling minds from infantile hysteria holding back fruitage of fantasy in exchange for seeds of thought Every poem armors me within this mystic war of death… We don’t know how many more times the sky will decide to be reborn We don’t know when Prophecy will start knocking on our windows I write because my ancestors cry against the corner of my dreams with tempestuous moans draining…hanging by the roof of my mouth for dear life therefore I don’t have to fight to find words to say… I got myriads.. because I got to tame this monster inside of me centimeters from insolence every moment like a dragon on a weaved leash I dig my cleats deep within the earth preparing for tomorrows sulking swagger I write for the penniless brother.. the hoods night crawler in nocturnal traps that would rather polish bars in prison cells than resort to hitchhiking on a block moving nowhere I write because the only bridges I cross are balance beams stretching miles at high altitudes as gusts of wind toy with my equilibrium Blank pages taunt me after moving through haunting days next to fools not living to be happy tomorrow Only to be buried smiling Shaking hands with demons instead of wrestling with angels for blessings I write because this pen will either go on this page or two inches deep in my thigh to carve the pain away So many claim to think outside the box when they write when they jus don’t know how high the roof of the box is so as I write I’m constantly searching… hopefully finding a leak in the crest… I write to touch… not to reach alone…. for every reason and no reason at all...................
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[DROPS THE MIC] Switch (The Poet) "Cry havok and let slip, the dogs of war" -William Shakespeare "Before you judge someone remember... Amateurs built the arc, Professionals built the Titanic." -Unknown Links: http://www.myspace.com/switchthepoet |
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