To the many who feel at times like they bloody can't write anything original |
At one point in my life I felt everything I wrote was stolen from someone else's genius. So I wrote to pour out my feelings and this is what the result looks like. Everyone goes through a time like that I think. That's why I post this poem to my wall so that you might feel someone understands what you are going through. ('Words' in this poem or expressed as "blood." Frogs are your troubles, doubts and tornemts) I stole the Rabbit from his hole I stole the Moon from the sky I stole the Image from the writer’s eye And I feel sick Like a tick Whose drank too much of the blood that's not his own So he starts to foam Foam with fear, foam with hate Foam with fear that he'll never have blood of his own But he won't As long as he bites And he draws Pictures of him with frogs Frogs of gore frogs of dark Frogs that burp livers and swim in shadows they're ugly things aren’t they says Her The cricket on the hearth Who chips warmth I am too numb to feel Can I feel? I didn't feel when the frogs imploded They exploded Over my mind dripping on me their filth from inside And I didn't cry Like the tick I slowly died But all inside Because the blood was not my own I drew pictures of me on the phone With a plagiarism old crone Whose name was not inspiration but devastation How could I have ate All the bait that she fed Like a rot from inside Like the malice in a murderers eye The Rabbit when in my sac The Moon in my paper backpack And the Image I ripped and I shred Once it was in my head Because I was jealous that wasn’t my own I twisted every hair on the rabbit I hammer and pained the moon Till the looked like the crone Who called me in my head Rest your head now says Her I will pray your mind gives no more flashes Of the sin you think you drew But it isn't true Sin came from a flock of ticks That bit the napes of frogs But I I Am a tick said I A tick who sucks the ink of genius The cricket chips She laughs a burp She says you are only a laughable flea |