#88

The Pen drips leaky sentiments from the womb of words
Upon the barren surface of the page
Milky videos tell the strories
Of the well worn belts
That barely surround the perimeters
Of their fat, complacent mallets
Treble clefs warble on the unsteady footing
Of the artist's grid
They have an art for mayhem
And contempt for rules and order
The frosted windows with chaotic cakes
So appealing to the unkempt soul
Jealous looks from the teacher
To the youth and the fear
Nonsense words and rubbish
That's all it is
Nonsense words and rubbish that the Pen would write
Serenade devious poets
Who will strive to scrub the burn
From the pasty keys
leave the surge undone
Levae the plug with Pen
Let the words collide
Clash and thrust their flaws
Never to unfold
Let the meaning work
Take coincidence undone
Make of it what you will
Advantage must be had
The lingering flab of fat
What's left is cold as gripe
And irises swaying to the beat
Of the silent hell
The ignored poet's folly
Who grasps the Pen again
Trying to pass awards in hand
And fill the cup all the way
They write for what seems
The epitome of
The despot CEO's wrapped up
With a rope of verbs