Audiences cannot handle the personification of carnage when it’s hovering inches from their face, dripping hot bacon grease onto their spotless khakis, smothering their sense of entitlement and corroding their majority vote. Audiences slink into their plastic lawn chairs and avoid confrontation with laughable ease. I laugh too because this is my poem and I am in control. I laugh at audiences who chase success by playing to the crowd, the same ones who compromise more and more with each sunrise. The feeling of constant regret will shadow even pyramids of unmarked bills. It’s all a fucking tightrope walk and once you accept that you only worry more... unless you’re quick enough to swat defeat each time it buzzes past your nose. I land my swats at a respectable rate, but only a true marksman is able to rise from sleep worry free with regularity. Doubt and insecurity are heavily underrated. Fear is not only natural but necessary for personal satisfaction. Nothing comes easy and luck is only a residue of design.
Philosophical rants are always lurking inside of me, causing an overflow of thought which translates to a quiet exterior. Goofiness is never far and when noticeable it usually means I am at ease, as calm as my brain will allow. I am not the smartest, nor the second smartest, nor the third, fourth, fifth, tenth, or twentieth. I am a writer who know he’s confused, a writer who plans to slam the keys every time my wrists beckon, a writer who is fully aware this inky disease could run for the hills at any moment, a writer who writes mostly about the shit times not because his favorite mentors do the same, but because it’s all he knows how to do, a writer who will never comfortably discuss his work in the company of others, a writer who would be nothing without music-- absolutely nothing, a writer who rarely reads but demands the company of books, a writer who writes far too much about himself but isn’t going to change a damn thing, a writer who cannot resist a blip on a the radar, be it random or subconsciously planned, a man completely lost in the specifics of everything and nothing.