The Stuff in My Brain

Did you hear that?

Its my thoughts,

they flow like beatles songs onto the paper and they melt the worlds thick black heart.

The things that come out of my fingers frighten me.

They talk about death, and happiness as if it were the same thing.

The pencil is its prisoner.

Its grasped to its final breath as it is worked like an african slave in the hot Goergia sun.

And i am the reason.

I am the reason all those graves are there, all those sunsets have set, and have risen, painting the sky thick with love and hate and my wonderful thoughts.

My thoughts are like blood on green green grass.

They are like love inside an old broken house as it creaks and aches.

They are like bare feet that swing to the rhythm of Gods music.

They are the reson i live.

And they are the reson i write.

Poetry is just but words, and words are ideas.

And my ideas can watch the world die and then watch it be reborn again.

I can never love anything like I love the stuff in my brain.

I can never understand the things I love.

Maybe the world will grow into the leafy greens of my soul

I send my power into the minds of the people and they sing.

And I write.

Because im made of words.