Television is seeping into reality,
Starting to dominate and control it.
Inevitable Idiocracy coming up
Faster than our worst nightmares predicted.
Everything, everyone has become so dull,
So boring, so predictable.
Is it just me, or is it really happening?
There’s a reason it was called the American dream.
Writing is like playing guitar,
You can learn every song off by heart,
Hit every note in a pleasing sequence,
Command every chord,
Or take a page out of Lou Reed’s book
And throw away the book. Teach yourself.
Inspiration is key, inspiration, experience, nature.
A good writer absorbs the world like a sponge,
Subconsciously filing away ideas and impressions.
Write every day they say. T.S. Eliot barely wrote a poem a year.
The Lyrics to Blowin’ in the Wind took Bob Dylan five minutes to write.
What happened to the spontaneity? The fires are burning out.
Everybody’s having babies and pretending to be grown up,
Parent’s drug habits preserved in pictures
For pretty much anyone to see. You must be proud.
Lying in bed strung out rambling going nowhere making no money.
This is the life of the voice of the poem.
I make no apologies. I bury my regrets.
Tj Brown, August 11, 2014 10:03am