Well I can’t write, I am distracted.
A bad actor, with a bad actress,
The TV is on, and its radioactive.
Sounds from the stereo, frantic manic.
I chill with the misses, on the hit list.
I persist, in a minute, feel worthless,
But still see whats happening,
The words play a part of this M. Night Shyamalan
Twist, the rings on the finger, torn off at the wrist.
Bloody bandages, with savages writing bad choruses.
I never said I was good at this, I just write to the rhythm of the music.
Try it sometime, writing rhymes. I get lucid,
And my mind relates if only to me, it’s relating.
Taking a minute from this mental masturbation, mounting frustration.
Blue lines, blank spaces, and all the ugly faces.
Displaced, and wasted.
I am just a pasty poet, writing pasty poetry,
Got someone behind an MPC, and things just make sense to me.
I can, and I must, write down each rhyme till I get off this rhythm bus.
Looking out the window, and it is stone and dust.
The temple is shut, my third eye is open, and you know what.
I feel good.
Takes a minute, to kick in this writing thing, but when it does,
You know me, I get it in. To each beat I hear, I love writing with Instrumentals.
Get it in the mental, missile launcher, membrane, Lillian.
Got some flowers in her hair, pure San Fransiscan.
Yes, the beat, say yes. You got this, simple litmus test.
Simple mental fitness. Doing reps on the rhythm jungle gym.
This is me, drowning.
This is me sinking.
This is love at the bottom of everything.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.
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