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Mon May 06, 2024 17:57:52 [ Login ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, [8], 9, 10 ]

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Date Posted: 04:58:36 01/24/03 Fri
Author: §leepý: The ∑pic of Κa†a¢lÿzm
Author Host/IP: dhcp04937.resnet.unc.edu / 152.19.191.151
Subject: Some shit that I've been thinking about lately. It hasn't happened yet, but it happens to every writer worth his/her salt in this world...Read on...

The Uplifted…volume one

The young man awoke in a dense sweat from his warm room
Turned on his computer, and tried his best to ignore the doom
That’s put several minds in a spellbind. He couldn’t carry his words.
He opened his mouth, and nary a word escaped, mind fluttering like birds of prey.
He sighed once, and he heard a bay of that greyhound of Dave Brown’s
The free spirit that used to always run wild on the playground.
But it’s nearly the end of his days, now. The dog lived his life to the last drop,
And he made every moment his own; gripped his whites on like a lambchop.
The man yearned for –his- freedom to ring true to his grey matter,
So he nestles through the tatters of his notebook for a minute,
Searching for his infinite wisdom, before his knack neared the abysmal.
All he found were eight lines from a year ago, “the uplifted”, it said
He gave a small thanks to the Heavens, taking in the gift that he read…

“I swallow ink from bottles and consume the black from the Rorschach,
Grit my teeth, bless the page, and ride as if I was on horseback.
Writer’s Block? I ignore that. My pratfalls are just my catcalls,
Because I make the loose-leaf grow beet red with my deep threads…
…fuck a ‘one mic’. I need a lead pencil and graphite from the my bureau
to create savage beast soothers. Create a crevice like lemon juicers.
Work on my flow like a Doozer (fraggle rock)…I never sleep when I hear a beat.
I give my all till the Devil calls, cuz only THEN will I feel defeat.”

The final word of the writing almost brought tears to his eyes.
Everything became clear in his mind…Not a shred of fear in his spine.
He stood up, confidence evident in his silent resonance
But his look was a precedent…A hope of implicating his actions.
A walk up to the mirror, fresh with his air of satisfaction,
He let loose with his passion, unfolding the lyrics through voice,
His own life was rejoiced; once again, his scenery had meaning.
He befriended his words, embraced the freedom he was greedy for.

Right when he was at his darkest hour, and “defeat” was screamed at his door,
He yelled right back in its face, and flowed forth, ready for more…

“DEFEAT?
Naw, I feel the heat of the Morning Star’s breath on my neck.
He waits calmly for fate to stall me, thinking patience will break my specs,
But all I await is respect from the demon that feeds my feignin’.
So fuck it. It’s Evil Season. I attack Satan with worldly grace,
I don’t even need a reason till I’m reachin those Pearly Gates
My halo tellin’ him ‘lay low, cuz we saved him with repentence’
This writer blocks no sentence…I’ll never lay down for Man One,
End this session on top, like a greyhound in his last run.”

As he walked back to the kitchen, finally ready to face the day,
His cares suddenly hastened away, as he wrote on his notepad.
Wandered freely like nomads, no obstruction of his spirits.
His pencil stenciled his future, justice sketched in his lyrics.

To be continued...

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