Author Information
Mic Check
Man makes the music.
Music doesn't make the man.
And there's a song waiting to be crafted
In every corner of the universe.
Disjointed,
We, the true,
Will unselfishly draw melodies from every breath around us
And not our weak indulgences
To feed.
Now we will craft beauty
With ease.
Letting the sun warm our surroundings
Before greedy absorption
Of hot-headed
Harmonic abortions.
Self-feeding 'til you puke grey.
Wondering what the fuck
You had to say
In the first place...
Finger those ivory keys,
Mr. Robotic Virtuoso.
Spread your computerized octaves
At metal speed.
While I strike the only chord I know
And cry
Salty sincerity...
Mr. Poet/Playwright,
Wouldn't you like to say right
What's in your soul?
Listen to that little boy in the distance
Cry on sidewalk steps
With scraped knees.
It's the sound of art being born.
The birth of disease.
The birth of a thought
Enwrapped in a truth
That your kind will scorn
For it's mere robustness:
Intimidating power
With a resilient toughness
To shake the heavens with ease...
Passion, Art, in its purest form
Is as base as the faith
From which it stems.
Essentially making you
The Illustrator
Of your own book.
The coats of paint are subconsciously applied
If you only look,
Making the destiny of your song
Self-prophesized.
Take the farmer, for example:
The labor employed
And fruits thereby revealed
Are easily influenced by
The tune that he hums
While tilling the fields.
And
I thank the skies
For what I've got
And savor the blessings,
Countlessly enumerated in chalk
Across my boards..
Teaching me nothing comes out of talk
And keeping me
From the illusionary walk
Where art is a product
Of how much you can perfume your fart.
Rather than how much you're able to
Stink it the fuck up.
Take the test:
Keep your soul.
Give me your technical mastery.
And if I can immaculately
Mimic your performance
Through factory lines,
Then you will see:
You're merely drawing through stencils.
Never once was the pencil free...
