Stream of consciousness + Rhyming exercise
When the maple tree saw the anaticipatory applesauce, the geese felt the fleet of sleep raining pain in sane ways from the insane brain lodged deep in the membrane of lane Lawson littering awesome in the alleyway of gay parades in may, have you stayed in the inn of all we say can’t make pay allay alleviate the stray pei wei with rockets today and guns to slay the crayfish dish and hashish with your quiche bleach the beach and preach to the people under the steeple about the people who evil kevieveil unveils the trails who he can after impales the whales kale shale pail after hours sail wail and after andy after andy after andy asked askmen question watchman guards the dredge treasure jealous trolls rubies and gems caruberetor stems and aunt louie haha bad name apple brain insane parades from the gays from the alleyways mentioned above before days in pains rains chains blacks on trains waiting to be freed from greed and seeds from appleseed johnny was a jackrabbit cockamouse blouse also the weightiest of them all was pleased to find honey where art thou romeo, Juliet is the east and the east has a priest who spreads yeast like a feast for the beast to feast his heart throbs like teenage dreams, kay arsenic bowel moment steeds afleck is bender the Mexican border hopping hopscotch with whisky and vodka after I call ya can you wish the dish had fish on it’s list for the grocery store that apprehended your sisters mister he was a twister tornado like weedery aftershave red is the color of the bed when after you can’t you do, but you never don’t, because you always trie, but sometimes you lose and then your aftermath gets all broken into scattergrams, with leeches grammaring the palindromes, why I don’t recall getting that message, can you try again because fish aren’t biting at this time of year I fear can you hear the leer of the jeer can’y quite disappear in time for the beer to reapper I should turn off the Amsterdam and take pots to the chamber and loosely associate those words into the shroud of shrimp nugget that taking me on this way can always have, however I do not agree that this is the beset way for me to helli I am not listening to what I am saying or am I and I cant even tell but the helicopter cant smoke cigarettes like I can when im drunk, can the reef be an open door
The blizzard blows faster and night’s ending nears
Ghosts of decisions, misguided by fears
and panic attacks that brought me to tears
over overblown notions of judgement from peers
afflicting my consciousness all of these years
And thoughts, these thoughts that have me pacing
It seems both my brain and my heart are now racing
I’m thinking this feeling could use some erasing
So I go about finding a way of replacing
my negative feelings with something amazing
Freed from my chains, running under the sky
I sing and I dance and try not to be shy
and after awhile, I feel I can fly
Although I’m uncertain, I cannot deny
the beauty before me is making me high
Timeless moments and borderless bliss
linger on lips and fingertips
escape the animosity, enter into ecstasy
with me, your dreams and fantasies
come alive down to your bones
with muffled moans and erogenous zones
Slowly, with such a tender touch
that means “I love you very much”
inside us, love is manufactured
closer now to being raptured
forming bonds that can’t be fractured
cords of soul now knotted tight
when it’s dark, they bring the light
disagree but never fight
this is what you know is right
dont jump in too soon or too late
don’t be someone you love to hate
if you need to, simply wait
You don’t quite get how much is at stake
if you can’t eat what’s on your plate
or make the change you need to make
It’s time to come home for sanity’s sake
I found too late I haven’t learned
What I have I haven’t earned.
Every writer, musician, artist, or poet desires to leave his or her “mark” on the world through his or her body of work. As a writer, musician, artist, and poet, I too desire to leave my mark. Like anyone who pursues the arts seriously, I desire recognition for my work and a modicum of fame on the side. Sometimes I wonder, though, if the mark I’m leaving is something beautiful in its own right. Maybe I’m simply placing scars on something that once was beautiful, now covered in the misguided published works of artists who put their own fame ahead of their artistic integrity. Am I one such artist? Am I trying to insert my own work into the public eye because I truly believe I have something unique to offer to the art world, or am I simply pandering to the desires of the public rather than using art as a means to express raw, primal emotions that cannot be expressed in any other way? Am I subconsciously imitating the styles of others? Do I attempt to parade my technical skill for creative genius? Am I truly an artist?
Absolutely.
Money-making motives or not, my art is still my art. The fact that I am the creator of my own work makes each piece that I makemine, regardless of how similar it is to other works (but seeing as I always do my best to refrain from imitation, I don’t think I have to worry about originality.) I invest emotion, time, passion, energy, effort, skill, and creativity into every piece that I do. I pour all my focus and attention onto the page, and not a single drop spills onto the nearby distractions. My mind is centered on the most moving of my psychological drives:
create.
