Poetic Dribbles that Signify Nothing

I decided to throw in some of my old poetry in between writing prompt posts just because I wrote these poems years ago and only a handful still don't suck to me. Well I'm hitting it one at a time. Anyway, you can't tell me you never have done that, create something epic whether it's a poem or song, or a painting or even took a photograph, think of yourself as a creative genius of geniuses and then years later be like, "What was I thinking? That sucked!" Yeah, most of my creative endeavors are like that, but I still look at some of my poetry like, "Hey, now that's some genius shit right there I don't care who you are..." I know I may be the only person in the free world who thinks my shit is awesome when it might be shit, but anyway, now it's published on my blog where it can be better appreciated than some journal who publishes poems about violins on a nightstand. Just so you know, I wrote most of my poetry with Nas playing in the background, giving it some form of rhythm jazzy like. Maybe only in my head, this bitch has rhythm in my head.

Commas were placed sporadically to indicate a slight pause for air.


a jaded servant faded into a moment

a momentum ascending falling upwards into a different plane

awing over the big bang, bawling for a coveted reason

look into the crystal globe, inspire Socrates gold, inquire what the future unfolds,

mold His image,

the dust to create,

the lust to destroy

ants worked diligently in skyscrapers

disappearing underground

a stock exchange of ups and downs,

nothing but a bunch of clowns

sifting through a sieve 

of money power and greed

selfish in each's own

rising above each other

falling below each other

tripping into another

devising heavens

spawning hells

cartels of pyramids so grand

like sunbeams connecting the heavens and earth,

but look deep inside, the pyramids hide, tombs of rotted souls

amour eternal amor

evolving to an infernal opiate

myopic minds blinds the subconscious minister

and whines about all that is sinister

while heaven diminishes to the upper east side of hell

the bed that was made for the suckers to lie

for the weak to cry

for philosophers to wonder why

and the raven to sigh forevermore

no, not in me, because the heaven I create is worth fighting all the hells for