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Some times life is slowly ticking forward
Broke like the hands on an old pocket watch
Left for eons to the man three generations down

These times life is borrowed and licked towards
Smoke like the man with an old frequent lock
Best to be left to the makers simply drawn sounds

We write when we laugh to the time locked forward
Smoke like the band that left us here in a knot
With three thousand miles we have lost a friend

Drastic dreams that are crafted like a notion of sorrow
The pages turn as we run with a sacred book caught
In the life before we drop it passing a corner round

Wondering hermits finding the last of the torn pages
Wanderlust for the rest to pick up the pieces
The breast plate a metallic shade for us as sounds

Lessons taking from what a grand magnet decides
The term stolen and to the want not to have some
The pages with everything seem lost between the trees

I have already sent the letter, sir
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
I truly wish I could learn to speak for them
I cannot change the whims of the worlds


Simple poem. Back to writing

Night to fly through us
Life is what we can
Type to try useless
Playing in a band

In every statement of fact
We find two statements of farce
In one to find reading helpful
We act in statements of life

So lined up at a coffee shop
And able to pray useless
The rivers have left us
Liable to be undressed


The Title of This Article Should Be Taken out of Context.

When one is writing they should find their inspiration in the surroundings. To write satire one often finds themselves re-reading and changing their template many times. When finding such inspiration from your surroundings the writer is able to make a figurative mirror to read into their own psyche. This results in people reading many different things into the writings of a satirist.

Writing about the act of writing is an exercise this writer uses to leave a state of ones writers block. This seemingly comes from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that feel they can produce art naturally.

The primary goal of advertising is to convince a viewer to buy a product. If one would like to feed their dog Purina brand dog food they are told their animal will be a smarter, happier and healthier dog. This is the idea behind any advertisement. When advertising cocaine, the television suggests that it is a wonderful way for one to become smart, witty and very rich. This is a suggestion that many young men and women who think venturing towards a humble trade such as cocaine use.

Due to the advertisement of the sincere grand lifestyle that comes with cocaine use a young writer is sometimes suggested to turn to drugs to find their inspiration. Many famous speakers have boasted about this form of inspiration. When one finds that these chemicals are nothing but blinding and a mask for ones own internal issues, they usually speak out against them.

When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is normally found under the surface words. This is the art in writing. One should not write like a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The words will come from the air around you. It is like when one plays music in a jamming fashion. The plan for a song is a simple few chords and words, but it is open to improvisation. This is like when one is fighting writers block. If the writer finds a few simple words to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.


A Little Mad Boy

I called it afternoon

I dropped down to the basket
Asked her to confuse me
Spoke like a sliding ape

The little mad boy mumbles at me
Nobody else can see him
But he is right beside me
His hair is greasy and long
He buried an American flag
Crossed his arms and wiped them off

I called it afternoon
But it was mid morning
I stammered while I was corrected
It was the tone of the voice
That tore me

The little mad boy jumps to his feet
He puts on his hat and belittles my space
He twists his cane bat and drips from the chin
He holds me in chain and slides me all in
He takes a rhyme scheme and trusts I don’t live
The devil himself
That is who he is

He told me it was morning
The little mad boy
Swore I never seen a vice
Laughing he clasps his hands twice
Here to set things right
I felt the same
So we got up to leave
Coffee and cigarettes were nice

Random Poetry

But I lost the rhyme scheme
Dragons told us of leftovers
But we refused to believe them

But I did lose the rhyme scheme
It fell out on the trail back there
The bag with everything is between the trees

We walked down the trail
Trying to find our little lake
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
I can't find it, 'twas our fate
We are lost without structure
Lost with impending hate

I cannot find the rhyme scheme
But there are others to be found
Found inside the dress to hem

I cannot find the rhyme scheme
It has been lost for quite a while
The bag with everything was lost
Between the trees