The Mystery Begets Creation

One of my slam poems

 

I sure hope I'm not the only sorry son of a b***h sick and tired of this meandering mediocrity we are forced to live, surely I'm not alone in discontent, in loathing those too ignorant to care.

With a basic awareness their eyes are clenched tight, their belly's full and a smile upon their faces, oh how I long for the comforts I am incapable of having.

Then again there is this pride that keeps me moving, still I am sick of waiting for the end to come, so damn it, the sky better fall down soon.

So tell me, how much longer? The struggle, the strife, blood-soaked ammunition and the rusted knife lodged in between my severed wings.

How much more of this, postponing the abolition wrought from the death of tradition?

How much longer must I endure?

All I'm saying is hell better freeze over soon, even if I can taste post-apocalyptic bliss whenever my head hits the pillow, with a swing of the scythe, the reapers frozen kiss.

An aged willow weeps, writhing while whiskey whispers, a poison key breaking free the shackles upon my cerebellum.

Now the DMT seeps in, the paragon scion painting abstraction within my glass third eye.         Sometimes, a tingle crawls up my spine, and I wonder, am I dreaming?

Am I awake?

What about you?

Well wake up!

It's all jolts and jangles anyways, and for most, sympathetic symbolism sooths the soul, while ethereal symphonies serenade the synapses firing off all the signals to mark the end, every atom dancing between now, and eternity.

We all greet doom at the desecrated door step of Father time, whose temple tires of our tyranny, our reality.

For you see, the mystery begets creation.

The mystery begets creation.

The mystery begets creation, with our imagination coloring this galactic canvas, so to take that from us is to end all that is, that is to say, Armageddon comes disguised in 10 dollar jeans and a 10 percent discount, in prime time TV and Xbox 360.

Simply put, the mediocre world our mothers and fathers feared, their scars reflected off of empty bottles and broken dreams.

So maybe the end is already at hand, and it wont be a great catastrophic event like all the movies depict, I mean hey,

I sell my body for minimum wage

I am forced to be all these things I know deep down that I don't understand, and its not like I'm not understanding.

I understand a great deal, but its in gaining such an understanding that I realize I understand nothing, and to top it all off the futility of my search for the big answers leaves me heartbroken.

Lying to myself only numbs the soul dying to be let free from this meat prison.

The prison system is fully encompassing, and soon enough, even our dreams will be taxed, imagine that, Dopamine, 10$ a milligram, Serotonin made illegal and the brain hacked away and replaced with computers.

Yes this is the coming evolution, that will solidify the doom we have wrought, revelations written in Erlang and C++.

Looks like once again science fiction is becoming science fact, and the fact of the matter is, we're all fucked no matter what.

Reviews

[Brittany]

This is awesome.

Also I've read up on DMT "the spirit molecule" and was always curious about the procurement of larger quantities. For we have it within us, it's just hard to tap into.

The intro to this piece is great, it catches and holds from the get go. It's an un-relenting piece, and I find myself nodding and agreeing through and through. Hell. Yes.