Creative Ire

The scribbles that once brought a rush now struggle to find a pulse.
Now that Ink blots shy away from limitations,
and envy the imitations that court pretentious nods for their innovations.
With cultural referencing and scripts they kill our mutations.
They’re pushing back the curtains and selling out for crowd validation,
these imitations veil our muses with reposted quotations.
While we’re avoiding our audience’s condemnation,
they’re chasing self gratification like they’re giving a five knuckle ratification.
They win the lights while we will hide from the shine of recognition,
fearing its blinding therapeutic condescension like a plague in circulation.
And here we are now practicing visionary utopianism to the best of our imagination,
to keep cloudy hues
and safeguard our pens from those cloned imperfections.


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I am me. I am Me. I write when I want to be free.

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