When The Deal Goes Down

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The Carcasses Of Inspiration

 

 

 

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The carcasses of inspiration
Wine glasses with Burgundy residue
Speaking to late nights & early mornings
Scribbles in the margin on the follow through
Feeling parched as I wake
Noticing your lipstick stains
Upon the rim of the glass
Reminding me of the dreams that remain
Bleary eyed, drinking the coffee grounds
Searching for a fate within the dregs
Fumbling over these typewriter keys
Lightheaded when I see your naked legs
Your smile is a distraction
But you pop a button & then one more
I’m at your complete mercy
Once the nightgown hits the floor

Something Noble

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Sally came to her Advanced Writers class that evening without much inspiration. The winter semester was headed toward finals. The stress kept building upon her. There had not much time to write lately. When she had wanted to write, she found the well was dry.

She was a junior at the University. A notebook could always be found in her bag. Sally had a habit of trying to write down any interesting thought she came across. She had been keeping faux-diaries since she was a little girl. Sally was shy about her writings before she met like minded people at school here. Now, she was cautiously open about what she was capable of writing.

Outside was bitter and cold. The snow hadn’t been cleared from the streets that afternoon. Everyone was walking carefully, if they went out at all. She wore her ancient clunky Docs an old boyfriend had bought her years before. They provided decent traction on the sidewalks.

She removed her coat and hung it on a hook at the top of the auditorium. She wore a light blue sweater and leggings with a scarf around her neck. Sally would be considered pretty once you took the time to look at her. She had a slightly nerdy appearance. She tried to look attractive without wasting too much time on superficial endeavors.

This class was her favorite of the week. She tolerated the rest of her schedule to be able to sit here and listen to Dr. Fitzgerald. As the class went on, she sat mesmerized. She had come to this school to learn from her favorite poet. This was her dream come true. She awkwardly smiled as he spoke.

“No matter what anyone tells you, you can’t teach poetry. You can only encourage someone to feel onto the page.”

She scribbled that quote into her notebook. As the class ended, Sally put her belongings in her bag. She noticed the professor was the only other person left. She took a deep breath and approached him.

“Can I buy you a drink or a coffee, Professor? I’d really like to talk about some of my writing.” Sally bounced nervously as she spoke.

“No, my dear, the Missus is eagerly waiting for my return.” And with that he limped off, down the corridor . He used an old shillelagh as a cane. She just smiled as she watched him. There was something noble about that man.

Autumn Is Growing Dark

 

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Autumn is growing dark
The season of the macabre
A stiff drink for courage
& inspiration by Bob
Imagination drifting a bit
The corners seem shallow
I’m losing my focus
These demons seem Hallowed

 

 

 

 

*Clearly I’m behind in my posting if this is just now making it to my page…

We Used To Know The Truths

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We used to know the truths
The fundamentals of our lives
Misplaced inspiration in youth
We, the lost children, who survived
Abandoned by artists searching for gold
Forgetting the dream of accepting yourself
Never admitting we’ve grown this old
Rejection of impending imperial wealth
Fuck your Republicans & Democrats
Those who sold the vision with betrayal
Insensitive bastards of the Cheshire Cat
Unsteady appeasement & divided we fail

Drinking The Spilled Ink

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Drinking the spilled ink

Anything for a touch of inspiration

The metal nib scratches the paper

Leaving behind unused insinuation

Touting such triumphs to the Heavens

Coming to these waters to galvanize

Words reign down with invigoration

& finally finding absolution within thine eyes

Hanging With Suspicious Writers

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Hanging with suspicious writers

An overly socialized troop

Collectively creating

An emotionally battered group

Pondering word placement

& the value of existence

The quiet utility of thought

Inspiration compounding persistence

I Do My Best To Be A Gentleman Writer

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I do my best to be a gentleman writer
At least to the extent that I portray
Scratching out all the love in my soul
But secrets linger in what I don’t say
Crawling deep into my distant dreams
I discover myself in a bawdy knave’s pose
Living this life in passion’s sacrifice
A wasteland, but a thriving ice blue rose
Falling back to reality in a tremendous jolt
Searching to gather notes of inspiration
I need a pen to create an enduring legacy
With immortal words I can defy expiration

Another Day Of Cold Coffee & Inspirational Songs

Another day of cold coffee & inspirational songs
I’m trying to survive with all my might
I’m not looking to be acceptable
Merely wishing to cherish what’s in my sight
Ink smudges quietly upon my palms
Unsure of my words, failing with adequate prose
Years fall into decades, but still
I’m flailing; conjuring an incomplete rose
The muse sits rocking, mocking
She struts out of reach of what I believe
Taunting me to sell my soul in angst
So I cover my typewriter in a sheet of Celtic weave

Over The Soft Meadows

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Over the soft meadows
Dancing in a sun dress
Love amongst the wildflowers
A simple life, but I digress
Spirited away by a charming Prince
With promises of a jeweled crown
She chose aspiration over inspiration
Weighed down, lost, she drowned