Enemies of Output
Gnawing through reality while laughing
Momma get dressed up,
do a little makeup,
rhinestone silver on her waist
she goin’ to the bar room
everybody looking
everybody wanna get a taste
You have this idea in your head and it’s loud, screaming at you like banshee before death. This vision you see, this thing you can imagine is so bright it waste no time blinding you from everything else. The most rooted, instinctual human wants and needs of hunger, thirst, sex, all vanish behind this mental spotlight with elaborate glow scorching memories while trying to get itself in the world.
It consumes you. From the top down you begin to be swallowed by the idea as it eats away at all things that don’t help it escape into the real world.
Then there’s the component of knowledge. A factor one can’t rush. Your idea, to be done justice, needs water, sunlight, care, attention, it need to be pulled into the world by hands that can make it as glorious as you see but you don’t have those hands, or at least, you don’t have the fingers that bend in that particular way, so in your palm sits this malnourished haze of what you know to be diamond like, cut from heaven itself and this injustice is almost enough to make you throw in the towel out of disgust.
A gnawing, ugly voice that’s only a quarter of you, at your worst, is now the loudest and this voice: despair, reality, limitation, tries its hardest to, with silver tongue and ambitions of lethargy, convince you “give up.”
This voice must be made an enemy of the Spirit.
He is to be ridiculed and laughed at.
Fingers pointed in the cranial playground until it cries it’s song of restrictions. We must bully him out of our minds and once he’s been made enemy, once he’s been taken care of; your sights set on turning this vision to material: how to get it into the real world, as closely matched as you see in your head, without falling short in translation.
Now the enemy becomes sacrifice. Cutting the corners to get close enough. This is to be attacked, stormed through. Abandon perfection as it’s glamorized excuse to procrastinate but one must uphold the integrity of their idea as to do it injustice is to fail when it comes to the most generous gift on God’s green Earth: an idea, a vision, a goal, a seed of something with the potential to influence the world.
This journey, from the comfort of a sidewalk into jungle heart requires machete, delusion, perseverance, madness and above all else one must imagine themselves ordained, pointed to with a Holy and golden finger to be the one to bring this vision into reality to be shared and experienced by all.
If one loses their mind in the process let us crown them in Roses!
Rapid breathing pounding chest
I refuse to rest
Chasing money
Angels confused,
sit in heaven,
look down on me funny, the honey,
that nectar,
what life is meant for, never found behind the vault door.
Confusion, eyebrows scrunched perplexion,
a hint, “be ready for a resurrection.”
That old you, buried beneath green and coin, a heart of scorn, worn, ragged from the pursuit, the next corner a treasure chest of loot.
Striving and never arriving,
at the dollar amount to make your days count.
The real rich hiding, far from the bank,
forbidden to enter
halls where currency rank,
how well your days went,
thousands on rent, soul bent, energy spent,
now I know what
“to live rich” really meant.
with fire,
winston
souled idea
East Coast Madman
Midnight Enjoyer
