Make it. Eat it. Shit it out. Burn it to a crisp, cry in the ashes,
make a new mud soul out of the paste.
Sing a little song, do a little dance,
then... eat it again.
Do that for years and years
then write your stupid fucking poem.
I've tore up my soul and rebuilt it a thousand times,
once from crumbs of ambrosia I found in a dumpsters I slept in.
I found them tucked in cozy next to a dead rat and a little dash of fryer grease.
I scream the DNA of my soul to the judgmental birds in the uncaring sky...
and I fucking lived.
I carved a picture of my soul on the tissue of my beating heart
and bled music on the morning fog.
But I died on the sunset,
rode the moon to midnight.
I only came back for the smell of October blackberries.
If all else fails Scream in a mason jar and toss it in the ocean.
Some day punk kids with slingshots will find it.
One lucky shot and that jar will break and sing them a song about real life.