“Burn Your Poetry”

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I remember trying thickets, those through which I have clawed.

Introspection reveals intentions, all as pure as they are flawed.

Thou: the excruciatingly deliberating type (yet thinks not enough to do a thing right?).

May he be the impetuous fool? Ironically pontificating over all he may do?

Life, paradoxically, but of haphazard decision, then somehow planned with meticulous precision.

Who is he? What shall he be? All beliefs change with the weather – heavy as an anvil

to light as a feather.

 

You know not who you are. Your life has been experiments; series of small successes

and failures to always abound, and these, these patterns, reliably uncanny,

always sure to astound (apply the scientific method – the results are profound).

The same insipid fantasies you’ve insouciantly danced around,

wake up to reality’s bleeding sound.

Burn your poetry to the ground.

 

You possess intelligence enough to know the pedestal you revere,

but lack enough to face consequence on a whole, subsequent payment of toll.

You meditate on an imaginary ring, senseless songs you sing;

though not slow-witted, you fail to see wisdom is not a black and white thing.

 

Your ambition an admirable sin, as is all poetry that blossomed therein;

frivolous rhymes of their skin and a shameless grin and a soul’s twin and all of the

other bullshit that you poetically spin (you’re the dumbest smart person to have ever been). Awaken and digest the truth you hear and see (it only exists in every atom all around me).

Start life anew, cut throats of all impeding your progress, crimson ink spills to lubricate one’s success, old eyes for the first time see, their failures to become my poetry.

Chop down your figurative tree; you are only free if you let them be no more a memory.

 

A doctrine of selfishness is what I dream I need preach, the life of generosity and giving

that for which I truly reach. Are you one of the bad guys or the good one wearing a bad guise? And to deceive whose eyes? To others he is eminence, he sees all implied therein as cheap sentiments, he is exaltation on their shelf because he’s more honest than Abe (except to himself).

I can solve others’ problems, never my own, thus is the day when all my flaws are egregiously shown. Broken, beaten, demoralized, made obsolete are the things I thought defined me, “essentialism” a cryptic angry sea, a pile of salty ashes where once thrived lustrous poetry.

 

Burned to the ground, incendiary moments abound, that which is lost is not meant to be found

as the new life has thus again crowned (the birth cycles of “you” go round and round).

Your current layer of skin is shed and done, circumstance at a temperature of four-hundred

and fifty-one as disappears do the tales you have spun.

 

The same insipid fantasies we ignorantly dance around.

Burn your poetry to the ground.

 

I’ve identity enough, to know, to whom I refer, when I write “I”.

Yet there is a disparity betwixt whom I believe I see, whom I shall possibly be,

and the itching truth beckons inquiry of me. “Who am I?” I plea! I beg of you,

simply tell me who to be! Tell me what to do and instruct me to diminish dissonant disparity.

 

He wishes to placidly place his life in a cradling set of hands like a steadfast ship so solicitous, one languorously floating amongst the clouds, amidst pillowy shrouds, sails fortified, winds eager to guide, shepherding me into the sun’s scintillatingly magnanimous magnificence.

This, luminous milieu, where I belong; this, splendiferous setting, where I find solitude and peace, serenity with myself and the rest of existence.

 

The writing calls to the soul like the wild to our primal instinct, interpretation of life is necessitated. Is it, in the world of today, too cerebral to pen a single thought?

Do people no longer halt in awe and tears when a poet’s words beckon their ears?

Do we no longer find raw vulnerability of the human spirit’s blood-paved frontiers in pouring out anger and confusion of years? Yesterday’s writer expired in a vapid abyss, imbibed and tremulous long before this, though, in spite of their works’ cursory dismiss, critics’ and the masses’ unlettered remiss, people yet found answers in their work after circulating posthumous.

 

The tragedy, in today’s penned works – diction painted in sweat, anguish to conceive,

tears to bleed, a canvas of a digital breed – is no dissection, nor embracing of pieces to a point of accolades or fortune, no line between mesmerized lovers and humanity’s shun, regardless of how far postmortem. Burn your past, your years entire down to the last.

Burn your poetry till remains dim and dust.

 

Whilst winds of truth, pregnant in their profundity, glide by, ever slowly and invisible,

more tales, those of utmost importance, are lost in infinity’s flood. The world reblogs

more hackneyed drivel, feigning confusion in life, allegedly attempting to overcome societal unacceptance and social strife. Charlatan blogger with cute face and pouty demeanor tears up

the internet, tritely troubled countenance always shown, whilst the truly tortured soul screaming for love dies unknown (too right to write).

 

Truth did not vanish instantaneously, life from a weathered corpse – it evaporated, by degrees, scattered in the breeze, droplets of honesty into the sun’s deleterious disease. I hope, above all things, for resurrection – battling mine and the world’s complacency with insurrection.

Burn your poetry.

Existing, living but not alive, an organic cage, one he’s trapped inside.

Hitherto, solutions edule, till realizes he the problem is him, signaled by his bellowing din,

the soul crying from within; template tampered, erase and eradicate, too right to write,

yet determine one’s own fate. I remember trying thickets, those through which I have clawed. Introspection reveals intentions, all as pure as they are flawed.

Pray for something sacrosanct, of stunning sincerity to rise from the ashes.

 

Burn your fucking poetry to the ground.

Burn your poetry.  


Tony Blau Veldt, 01/14/2015 completed