Poetry

The Fall, 30 (274.)

Hey man, what are you gonna do about it?
I’m not sure, I thought I’d
yell and shake my fists
and write a polemic
and listen to metal and imagine
a whole lot of deserved bloody violence,
but I just got three books in the mail,
and their presence helps me focus
on more positive messages.
I still hope that the pen truly is mighty,
though it pains me to say
I’ve given a lot of thought
to the sword of late,
how it helps to hone it
in my head, my mind
a whetstone that sharpens wit,
though most of what I let out my mouth
is shit.
Chalk it up to reactionary drivel.
I’m pretty quick on the uptake,
and a fast draw,
remarks fly from me like daggers
from a bandolier,
the sword leaps from its sheath,
in my head.
In real life,
I stay timid.
I hide behind the shield of humility,
despite knowing I am capable.
I fall back on the words of others,
I devour the creations of others,
I get passionate about the ideas of others,
but what the fuck have I done?
Is this why I embrace the pen
and let the sword lie?
No, even a sharp wit can cut
when words are aimed
at a proper target.
I don’t even use words with force.
Yet they are my greatest asset.
There are towers that need to be assailed,
and wracked, and ruined,
ransacked to their utmost emptiness,
then set ablaze
and toppled
into the endless churning sea of
apocalyptic and apoplectic mediocrity
through which we flounder,
and in the fields that survive,
we may plant trees and foods anew.
Structures can go.
From these new gardens,
summoned by words and earned with swords,
the trees will yield wisdom
and the plants sustenance.
All we need to thrive, in time.

The above rambling in two words:

fuck capitalism.

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