Write because you want to,
Because it feels good to,
Squeezing verbal juices,
And milk the mind of flow,
Nectar of your culture,
Meaningless and meaning,
Into abstractions and journeys,
Yolk of fresh albumin spilling,
Over working fingers in viscous,
Frothing and branded heated spittle,
Of a pan laced with choppings,
Moist and ready for consumption,
Over wine and chatter,
Write as close windows clatter,
And grown words seep like tears,
From bluish eyes of little children,
And with flickering lids,
Of butterfly lamps in dark skies,
To distant sounds of parties growing,
Into lusty night just write,
Form the depths of universal plan,
Grieve and bemoan when you can,
Pen our future and score this past,
Write it now until the last.
Because it feels good to,
Squeezing verbal juices,
And milk the mind of flow,
Nectar of your culture,
Meaningless and meaning,
Into abstractions and journeys,
Yolk of fresh albumin spilling,
Over working fingers in viscous,
Frothing and branded heated spittle,
Of a pan laced with choppings,
Moist and ready for consumption,
Over wine and chatter,
Write as close windows clatter,
And grown words seep like tears,
From bluish eyes of little children,
And with flickering lids,
Of butterfly lamps in dark skies,
To distant sounds of parties growing,
Into lusty night just write,
Form the depths of universal plan,
Grieve and bemoan when you can,
Pen our future and score this past,
Write it now until the last.
