Testo Handshakingglitterteethphoto-op

In 25 years I never felt so weird. Up to my ears in bottled messages,
the blessing is most deafening -
the sound of harsh reckoning,
sitting on top of my plane crash with flames and ash beckoning.
I hear the wreckage sing
married to death without a wedding ring
I mourn the harmonies I built
while holding up the shortest man with stilts I hate the way I'm writing
all passive phrases that shy away from proper nouns.
Not much progress for the last seven years
but I still reign big terror in the smallest town.

Right now is the best time for me to write
motivated by only extreme artistic frustration
there's no money to sway me
there's no label that would dare take me
there's no room in me for outside influence
I'm bubbling over with self-assurance and defiant blood

I'm through with poetry - no more illustrious shields.
I'm bringing it raw
sick of softening my message for art's sake. I'd pretend I'm not a carnivore
but my nice guy voice sounds fake
Every poem was a eulogy
and every lullaby I told a wake/awake.