Thursday, November 4, 2010

Unfinished slam poetry(sort of)

The English language is at its base descriptive, if often blatantly blunt at times, many venture no further than a trisyllabic dialect, choosing ignorance over eloquence. However buried by generations of American distaste for literature lies a depth of expression

Buried by cheesy slogan wordplay
Behind the one liners and sitcom repartee
Past political power puns and hope and change and yes I can
Beyond the cliche I don't understand big words testosterone fueled "man"
Lies dormant the lexicon of Shakespeare and Poe
Words in this culture few seem to know
Writing for me is vice. Vice and temptation and seduction and lunacy and limitless travel. When I write the pen becomes a conduit, spilling soul onto paper. Imprints of me scratched into hundred sheet composition notebooks. Little black books with mirrors inside, windows showing us reality. The closer we stand to the mirror, the less the reflection can be distorted by our own desires and biases and fears. The more I pour into a poem or story, the more I see myself in it, unashamedly splayed across the altar of my own work. So before you read, hear my solemn request. Open, judge, understand, accept. For what you see is the truest presentation of me I can ever make.