Writers Block has hit me hard.
Wounded a façade, backyard dining
On a table, of Aesop’s fables
Wondering when I will be able,
To change my fate,
Sitting back and waiting
Has caused me frustration
And only has added to this mental masturbation
This work is almost done, ready to come
to fruition, boiling over like a kettle or a pot
A poet is the size of you know what? I don’t know
I wouldn’t even call this a poem.
This is a sentence, for the egocentric
with no place to go, and definitely not home.
and definitely not with her.
The world is turning counter clockwise,
And my chauffer is outside changing a flat tire,
Where I want to go, the meter has expired,
Like the milk, or the mummies, or the wonderful
World, sung by Lou Armstrong, a beautiful song
That doesn’t hold true, but still sounds beautiful
When she hummed it back in 2002.
When the hunger games was just a thought,
And disease free, still was burning bright.
I was sick back then, but I had some friends
Far more fewer then the ones I got,
But probably truer.
One day, I hope I will be forgiven
For all my discretion, the world was not equal
And I was definitely less then,
But now, I think I learned my lesson
Can you repair bridges that burn so easily?
I remember you, you are still a piece of shit to me,
And if I see you I will probably show you the new me.
I tried to lift you up, though you walked on me.
Cause I am grown, I am wearing the crown in Nevertown
I am sick with the stylo, and lost and found, feels real good now.
Because when I get going, and really entranced in this lyrical
dance there’s no chance of stopping me now.
You spit on my dreams, you stepped on my shoes,
Left me bruised. Well now I see that you stay complacent
To the same ol, same ol,
Probably still a racist, bigot asshole.
Probably some suburban dump truck, who doesn’t understand love
You have a tattoo of mine, better cover it up.
I hope I never see you in my sight.
But if I do. I am going to release hell on you.
Call my bluff, I’ll make you choke on the mic.
Or maybe you’re doing good, and have mended your ways.
Well it still aint the same, and it will never be like
Back in the day.
Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.