~sketch0r

Mood: Proud. So proud.
Listening to: Bright Eyes -- Waste of Paint

Hello, everyone.
Prepare yourselves for the long read. But read it. Every word.

This was meant to be an explanation. After a car ride home, it became much more than that in my head.
I wrote the greatest poem ever written tonight. [link]
It took me well over an hour, and I'm honestly mentally drained. Don't scoff when you read it. It went through massive edits and much thought before I came to a finished product that does the title justice.

More important than being the self-proclaimed author of the greatest textual work of art ever created, I have to say something. I'm so proud of all of you for what you do. Each and every one of you.
You write.
There's no money in it, very little pride, and even less attention. But you write.
Thank you all for that. Everyday your insight and lust for what you do drives me forward and propels me to live a better life with a velocity that even I can't perfectly understand.

I come across harsh and bitter, usually. This I know, understand, and personally am fond of. But that's not exactly what you need to see and hear from me. When I yell and scream of my disappointment with you all for your lack of (good) writing and deviations ... yeah, that's gotta seem terrible.

But I hold you all to the same standard I hold myself. No higher, as that wouldn't be fair to you and most certainly not fair to me. That standard is nearly to the point of perfection. Perfection. I've seen pieces of perfection from all of you. When I say that what you're creating is sub-par or -- as is normally how I state it -- that it, "fucking sucks," I mean it's of an unacceptably low quality for the skill that you have proven to me you possess.

I'd like to take this point to share with you the lyrics to the song I'm currently listening to, titled Waste of Paint by the band Bright Eyes. Please take the time to read at least the boldfaced portions, if not all of it:


I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain. He wakes up, drives to work, and then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper. I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover. And I tried to tell him he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent. And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me. I am a waste of breath, of space, of time."

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true. Her love for her man was one of her many virtues. Until one day, she found out that he had lied and she decided the rest of her life, from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened. And she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept. What did you expect? In that big, old house with the cars she kept. "Oh!" and "such is life," she often said. With one day leading her to the next, you get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her. She never got upset and with all the days she may have left, she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best. She was free to waste away alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove. And this cop pulled him off to the side of the road. And he said, "Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man. No, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't understand!" The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful. And you carelessness, it is something awful. And no, I can't just let you go. And though your father's name is known, your decisions now are yours alone. You are nothing but a stepping stone on a path to debt, to loss, to shame."

The last few months I have been living with this couple. Yeah, you know, the kind that buy everything in doubles. They fit together, like a puzzle. I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us. And they still do me. I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy. Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is some kind of lottery, where you scratch and see what is underneath. It's "Sorry", just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.

So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride. I just sit and watch the people there. They remind me of wind up cars in motion. The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions. And I want to scream out that it is all nonsense. And that their lives are one track, and can't they see how it is all pointless? But then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and suddenly it is clear to see it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity. As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve. And I am never real; it is just a sketch in me. And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral, where the floodlights point up at the steeples. Choir practice was filling up with people. I hear the sound escaping as an echo. Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. When the voices blend they sound like angels. I hope there's some room still in the middle. But when I lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is too high, way up in heaven. So I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking off. And try to just keep moving on, with my broken heart and my absent God and I have no faith but it is all I want, to be loved and believe in my soul. In my soul.


The point is: we're not simply all a 'waste of paint.' We, instead, are painters. We paint the world with colors the eye cannot see, to better explain to those reading how it feels to see through the eyes of beauty.
The world is beautiful. Like the cheesy scene with the white, plastic shopping bag simply dancing before a camera ... it's all beautiful. It really is. God or no God, big bang or creation ... it's simply irrelevant. Either way, chance or design: it's beautiful. And we, as poets, are the magnifying glass for the world.

Disagree? Impossible. Why else would you write, if not to share either beauty or a lack of it with the world? Your words are simply a highlighter carving a bright yellow path across a scorched earth.

Life is serious. It's damn serious.
But it's fun, too. Sometimes I read days upon days worth of poetry on here by people that aren't having any fun taking life seriously. You can do both.
I do. It's not like a magical gift or anything. It's simply a realization I've came to.

The heavy degrees of pain that many of you seem to focus your lives upon must be overwhelming, if you allow it to overwhelm you. The thing that gets me is that most of you haven't even ever had to experience the overpowering drain of a double-shift at a real job; much less have you stood up, stood tall, and taken a black eye for something you believe in. You'll never believe the power that comes from standing before an enemy you can never hope to beat, whether that be the school bully, a racist father, a corrupt corporation, or a world too preoccupied with hate to remember how to love.

There's more power in martyrdom then in persecution.

And that's what we do, when we write as poets. We place our true feelings on paper for anyone to find, pick up, and read. We allow our innermost thoughts to become martyred.
There's a pride in that.

There's a real world out there that we all have to deal with. The odd part is that this real world seems more surreal than when you're not in it. Ever notice that when you work a standard eight hour shift, the only thing that seems to have changed is the position of the sun? You don't feel like the world can possibly have actually done anything without you there. It does, though. Time stops for no one. But there are many ways to approach this real world.

You can do it as most do. You bow your head, look at the number written on the card you were given by "the system" at birth, wait for them to call your number, and step in line, remaining a number.

You can take a more antagonistic approach. You can come out swinging. Fists up, protecting your face and finding weakness in the world, you jab and pull at these revealed weaknesses, causing little ripples that are quickly smothered.

Or you can be a poet. You approach the world with your arms loosely opened and raised at your sides, singing lyrics of love and truth and joy. This, my friends, changes the world for the better.

I'll admit, I -- personally -- cannot help swinging a few punches as I sing. I'm never submissive, but not always offensive, either.

I'm a poet.

Welcome to my army.

As an army, we do have to fight a war. A war against hate, against pain, against lies.
We fight a war against everything that we know to be false.
We fight for beauty and love.
WE FIGHT FOR LOVE!

We fight for a world that allows light to shine on our faces and we fight for US!

WE MUST FIGHT!

WE MUST FIGHT THIS WAR AGAINST EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG IN A RIGHT WORLD!

...

...

But I need you all. I need you all. I can't afford to lose anyone, I can't afford to alienate any single one of my poets.

I swear to you, I promise to you, I will stand at the forefront.
I'll be at the head of the army. Not necessarily in charge, but fearless and strong. My. Beautiful. Machine. Gun. in hand, I'll laugh in the face of this world that wants to silence us. My army will be equipped with megaphones as guns and stanzas as ammunition.

But stand with me. Please.
Never be afraid of your heart. More importantly, never be afraid of anyone else's reaction to it.
Never be afraid of you.

I haven't Tivius' words or wings to spread before you as shelter from the rains of hate or to wrap around you as warmth from the cold of a cold, cold world.
I've only the Machine Gun of confidence he's granted me, and merely the pride of knowing I stand affront and among an invincible army of gods and goddesses -- poets: everyone of us.

Write tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And forever.
But write of happy thoughts; write of hope and joy and life and touch someone with your words.
Write of love.

Listen to music, as it will feed your soul.
Read Shakespeare and Kerouac and DiFranco and Tivius. Read works by the great names that came before us and live among us. Read until you can grasp and understand what these untouchables are writing for; gasp in awe as they cease being untouchable, but instead simple and accessible.
Then read it again.

Cry.

Laugh.

Live.

Love.

And do it all fiercely. Bloody damn fiercely.

Stand behind me, my army. I need you there.
Don't stand in rank in file, as we're standing against the rank and file world.
Don't stand in a mass, as we're standing against the masses.
Stand as individuals, every one.
Stand straight, proud, and firm.
But most importantly ...
Stand behind me, my army. I need you there.

You can't write non-stop. I understand this. Life doesn't allot us that much time. However, being a poet goes deeper than simply writing. A poet lives a certain lifestyle. A lifestyle of concern for others and of a love of love.
Live your life as only you can. Only you can do it, and you only get to do it once. Don't waste a day, a moment; don't waste your life away. A smile from a poet may be just what the world needs: any moment the world may slip into the point of no return. All is lost then.
We fight a war of smiles.

Make me proud, my army: prouder than I already am (fit to burst).

The time has come.
Your time has come.
Our time has come.

Pens up.
Smiles on.

Write.


From one poet to all the others,
- sketch -





Thank you, Tivius.
Your unceasing passion for what you do and who you do it with never fails to amaze me and only creates a greater ideal for my dream than I already have.
I will continue to be that asshole that refuses to do anything but Save The World.