Lipinski wrote:oh, the pain. to speak in real time...
Mark, explanation?
You know but know to speak in real time. Try looking deeper, write not for yourself or even this world.
Crazy?
Yes, for sure, indeed,
but...
for you, a look into my world.
***
Opinion of mine since knowing, you have climbed a mountain and still keep going.
Anger? I've insulted you and style to invoke reaction, to show you another world.
Did you see?
***
For one, I'm no poet.
It takes two to tango.
I-S, is what invoked my anger.
Did you see?
***
Explanation?
For the 'three'.
Mmm, lets see.
1. there is 'no' Joy... there will never be 'harmony'...there will never be 'success'. mankind has already failed. anger?
the devil, because mankind tries. God, because (unable). mankind, because mankind is able.
2. knowledge, the 'forbidden' fruit, what 'joy', 'harmony', or 'success' can come to pass? Only 'anger'. what is the cause of all anger? S-E-X. only children shall inherit the world, unless... discovery of a new world, the one of knowledge, of temptation, of 'original' sin, leading to sensory pleasure of endorphins being released in a brain wired of-and-for the world, the same world...remember? Write, 'not for yourself, or even this world.' Anger? If you were the Father and your children disobeyed, what would be your 'emotion?"
3. Okay, a poem nearer to this world. An old man or an old girl, hands trembling in anger while sitting in a home filled with memories of raising children, happy children playing in the living room leading to tears of joy but allowing the tears to turn to anger, the real world of the real time as other children now make fun of the recluse who is now alone, without family, spurned by family, and angry at the recent rock thrown through the window. Is the reader confused? Is the reader angry? Or did the reader throw the rock?
Enough of this play as the curtain falls. The words of mine grow stale. The music shrill. The popcorn stale.
I am but an actor standing on rotten wood.
Reading my lines as best I'm able.
but after?
another world.
Word Up!By Mark EdgemonWords are words, blood dripping words from open wounds,
Permeating stinch after marked expiration date.
Philosopher, genius or stark raving naked.
Who cares? Not I! Not You!
Writing for oneself is literary masturbation.
No one wants to see. Keep it to yourself!
Nobel prize for buried literature;
I'd rather have the check.
Einstein humpin' theory,
Or as close as he is goin' to get.
Frankenstein, a man of few words,
But he had the anger thing goin'.
Wide eyed greatness takes a header into an unmarked grave.
Throw in some feces and assorted seeds
And you got somethin' to look at - until winter.
Seated at an old used computer,
That turns new videos into still shots.
Unexpected freeze and creative growth dies.
Words, we have enough of them
By previous breathers, speakers and writers.
So what's the point...exercise!
Until you move someone.
The End