Ghosts of My Heroes

Writing is a dying art form, the world has become overly PC obsessed and real individualism is lost. Like Kerouac, the only ones for me are the mad ones.

There are no more heroes of the pages

Highway poets, pirates or drunken sages

Technology consumed and sheep replaced them all

But they're remembered, celebrated as fallibly human and flawed

Their ghosts scratch at my hardened soul, a wild inferno keeping that spirit alive

In this whiskey stained, cigarette stank notebook and inside rebellious minds

Everything has become so f*****g safe

Where is the real American night

The drugs, the booze, the f*****g and fights

Celebrated in all of its dirty truth

Author's Note

grammar is not necessary for expression