Wednesday, November 3, 2010


We think we’re so smart and wise

We use the lines that real artists pen, those whose tongues have truly struggled on, singing without water, to somehow justify the twirling of our feet to ground

Our tongues have barely met the salty nub of life, rough with crystal, slicing sweet flesh raw

We don’t know about life outside of institution

Of a world without observation

Of a day without evaluation

We’ve yet to hold against our chest a real piece of life still warm from the oven

We are still spoon fed sponges

Connected by a single thread of truth so vivid in color

So strong in fiber

That it doesn’t matter how false our own artistry is

How unoriginal the burn scars

We’ve all got scars

And we’re all standing at the feet

Of the same certain scars

That save despite ourselves

We think we’re so smart and wise

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