poets are the toughest motherfuckers you’ll ever meet


i don’t ride a motorcycle(yet)
or have a big pick up truck
i don’t cut down trees(anymore)
or cruise the bars
in search of pointless conquests
i don’t drink shitty beer
or wast my time on small talk

native blood and no beard
long hair
laced with grey
character of foreplay

a body unmarked
and a face unshaven
always with slight signs
of misbehaving

keyboard clicks
and walking sticks

i crave wine
and women
and guns

rEvolution of the individual

i am the metal hand of doom
clasped around
the soft feather
of classical creation

blessed outlaw

i am a


some folks say that
poets aren’t tough
i disagree
we’re as tough as nails
constantly hammered
yet refusing to bend

we endure the drudgery of daily life
without complaining(except in our writing)
we take life’s beatings
always begging for more
as we challenge the tide of insanity
and force it into submission

we appear solitary
sitting in inquisitive
and silent observation
as we
rave and write
in a style that’s
too honest
and too brutal
for the masses

we refuse to comply with societal norms
because subservience
is for charlatans and pussies

we make due with less
working only enough to get by
because time is better spent
consuming the fuel for our art

draped in worn shoes
and day old clothes
we always look a little
rough around the edges

we drive beat up cars
that are always failing
and eat lots of leftover meals

we sleep in big lonely beds
with quiet music
and uneven pillows

we drink too much
we smoke too much
and we know
that fate holds no quarter
for summer fools in love

we always bet on the crazy ones
and end up losing
still, we keep coming back for more
(some would call that insanity)

we converse with the voices
inside our heads
and acting

we’re intelligent
but not conceded
but not boring
constantly living
along the edges of tomorrow

we thrive when we
shock you
and shatter your illusions
and we always know
how to have a good time

we love
like we fuck
with a passion
and intensity
that intimidates most

we know who we are
and what we want
we don’t quit
we endure
and long after “real men”
have burned out
and faded away
we fold ourselves into the pages of history
awaiting the next chapter



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