They do not know
What to do with us.
They know not
How to neutralize
Our acid tongues
And basic creative liberties.
In a society
Where dissent is criminal
And thought is dictated,
We the poets
Prevail
And unite
With artists of all disciplines
And those
With enough courage
And curiosity
To see through our lenses.
We bear the emotions of every man.
All the while
Living the lives
We see fit for ourselves.
Through our collective brooding,
We try to improve the world
One community
At a time.
The minute an artist
Admits defeat
Is the day
He or she
Becomes uninspired.
Soulless.
Possessing the insight of fungus.
We the poets
Bite back.
Ripping into the status quo
Like pit bulls.
Our bites:
Equally as damaging as our barks.
Barks usually suffice.
I wish,
However,
That we can rise against
Enemies of art.
The rapists
Of minds.
And immerse ourselves
With the inner peace
We seek to find
And pass it on
So we may build foundations
For better lives.
May we not interpret arms
Extended in embrace
As one-two punches
To the face.
May we be as open
As the wounds
And trauma within
So that hatred, angst, and bitterness
Surely
Can be granulated
And distilled
Into the purest
Elixir of love.
May we truly
Be united.
May our unity
Be true.
We can not afford
To waste our words
Like sperm
Jacked off
Into a toilet.
Silence is blasphemy.
Not sharing is cruelty.
Not growing is counter-productivity.
For many of us,
We had to die.
Kill ourselves exponentially.
Mourn the loss
Of our collective naïveté
Before we straddled these ballpoints,
Unleashing their wrath
Above and behind
Thin blue lines.
Sometimes,
They are overshadowed
By ivory battlefields
With serif land mines.
We the poets
Must not surrender
To our subliminal
And self-imposed limitations,
For artists have few boundaries.
If not,
None whatsoever.
Our metaphoric mêlées
And alliterative altercations
Shall result in an inner-conflict resolution
For the purpose of initiating
A revolution.
With our senses and our sensibilities
As our shields
And our weapons of mass production
Of ideas outside the box.
Never to be mass-manufactured
Or sold in jewel cases
Courtesy of Columbia House.
We the poets
Must aim to detach our beings
From ourselves
On occasion.
We must aim
Not to alienate
On purpose
Or turn against each other
With razors
Embedded within tongues
With which we
Repeatedly slit limbs.
Nor must we verbally masturbate
To our own reflections
Upon metal tripods.
We the poets
Must speak of substance
Bleeding from open wounds.
Riddled with these letters:
N
a
C
l
A.K.A.
S
A
L
T
We the poets
Must display the deference
That we so often lack
From external stimuli.
We the poets
Will remove the daggers from our backs,
Twisted and scourging
Folded skin.
We the poets
Feel pain but manage to carry on.
We the poets
Will someday rule the world.

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