for every poem that leaves you
a part of you dies
here’s to all you long life motherfuckers
artless, heartless and without verse
-W.E.
ahh, the poetry of being
the verses of feeling
the prose of seeing
the vernacular of doing.
the beat of vibration,
the meter of contemplation
the harmony of realisation
the chords of elation
it doesn’t have to be words,
nor the writ,
but at least show us,
that inside something is lit.
tired of this shit,
this empty spit,
prattle, fucken prattle,
insincere, without grit.
W.E.
lonerloaner 