Joey Cloudy online

Tell Me I am…

“I know it’s pretty. But, I didn’t take it out just to get some air”

-Requiem for a Dream

Beautiful. How long have we starred over the edge of the abysmal

end, two disembodied ego eating eyes mesmerized

forgoing everything we know of nothing?

We have secret carrion cravings and bestial appetites that we must

feed knowing. It will never be

enough. We will never be.

Sated, we cannibalized our gods corpses.

Devoured the succulent spirit flesh of fallen

atheistic angels as they prey on our soulless poems.

Do not be afraid. You are the hero in your poem.

If you have nothing to say, put down the pen,

step away from the keys.

Buy a baby

grand piano. Play it loud without ever having

taken a lesson or knowing a god damned thing

at all about Muse ick. This callow world does not knead

more distractions. Know more

pretty words that mean nothing?

Vomit your sacred psyches simile digested pieces

as true mind takes the ancient pilgrimage to the consecrated

white page. It must hold some godless truth.

It will not be poetry. But,

it will be closer to the groveling gods

ears than a thousand genuflecting monks vacuous prayers.