I assure you, I'm as novel as the last act-
a walking piece of crap
plagiarism's abstract
For a lack of original work,
I'll sell myself short
and collect the riches for it.
When I run low on fictional tales,
on forced awkward rhymes,
on those standout lines,
it's hard to resort to the unentertaining,
to the blunt, the boring,
the truth-containing...
As possessor of the microphone
I demand your full attention.
Complexities, they need not be
when I'm able to say things simply.
Both repulsiveness in each strings vibration
and my sad excuse for poetry
abolish self-accreditation
of an artist with pride. I wish I could see
people singing back to me,
but my only fans, my only listeners,
are the pixels on my computer screen.
Regardless of how much the copper makes me bleed,
I'll remain an anguished instrument of mediocrity.
It's always been a dream
to just get up and leave
and to return as a stranger.
The mysterious is to the curious
as methamphetamines
are to the user.
This is the product
of nocturnal intoxication.
Should I reiterate the words sung out by a million other artists before
they kicked the chairs out from under their
dangling
feet?
There's only one
definite attraction,
my primary
distraction...
When time brings my final curtain,
there'll be no ears to listen in.
Resonance of repetition...
When will life begin?