I know why there’s always pens in your pockets

Some of us write to find forgiveness
robbing from memories
when it's better to forget
Some of us write to steal silence
when the screams of ego
fill the darkest hours of night

Some strut blindly
past the huddle of the homeless
faking deaf to their own counterfeit fate
scribbling out a rhyme
while feasting on the hungry
like peacocks shedding word tears
for a mate

Some spit blue sparks of rage
their ashes of obsession
endlessly in fashion
another woke of the day
to rant the blood of justice
streaming lava for a burning page

But if inspiration falters
at the altar of the scribe
when sweet addiction beckons
creation comes alive
so I scribble like a demon
with barely pause to think
though I may never write the reason
why my world inside
churns ink

 
 
 
The pen lays
inside my palms
sliding deep in
my pockets
 
there is a fire
burning slowly;
 
deep furnaces
longing to appear
as stains on paper
for another eye  
to glance upon,
 
they come
in crescendos
of car crashes
 
striking down
each lesson
as it goes
 
because life  
isn't a scene  
of moments
filled with
beauty or
nostalgia,
 
this pen  
in my pocket
isn't beautiful
 
every rage
lays inside
a chamber
 
waiting for  
my thumb
to push
down.

An oil painting,
made during the Renaissance,
with cracks,
cracked, with cracks;
with deep wrinkles.
A masterpiece
of a painter
who did not accept
the title of painter.

An enigmatic smile,
squint,
hypnotic look,
a burning background,
surreal impressions
in the retinas of those who look
that look,
who surrenders to a smile,
who wanted
to be as good a painter as that scientist;

Who reads the cracks
on the surface of the skin, oil,
from the board;
who thinks it's about time
for that smile
to stop by the skin beautifying clinic!!!

By the way, if a guy
who says he is not a painter
paints a picture this way,
imagine if he decides to be a painter...
I think, with my buttons,
that as a scientist he was a great painter.

The guy was a genius,
he managed to sketch
a good part of the machines
that for us are banal
and for his time
they were nothing more
than alchemical hallucinations.

Maybe, without knowing it,
his anatomical studies opened
path to the existence of the Skin Beautifying Clinic.

They say, moreover,
that the frame is a very well engendered
way to trick us
a kind of renaissance “drag queen” self-portrait,
in which the painter, who was not,
makes the meta-language
(20th century invention)
into an expressive form of his own homosexuality.

(Sorry for the term, but there is no other,
If you want, you can interpret the sentence as:
“an author’s fad”.)

And if so, clap for him,
which once again confirmed
his genius as a painter!
Not that it wasn't proven before.
by the “Virgin of the Rocks” or by the “Last Supper”,
where, if we look closely,
Christ has a face like a woman
of the other frame, which in turn
there is that of the scientist who was not a painter,
but he was a genius!!!

What a skin had the artist scientist drag queen,
pity that, with the years,
created its wrinkles out there...

The painting is beautiful, as it is beautiful
the smile, is beautiful the scientist
who lives in the painter's skin,
The work that survives 500 years is beautiful...

Skin beautifying clinic finances up to 5 years...
The skin, the smile
and the wrinkles stayed in time as they cracked.
The skin, the smile and the wrinkles
they cracked over time, they stayed.

And the Japanese standing in front of the work,
with their cameras,
completely unaware of the existence
of The Skin Beautifying Clinic.


PAR

 
Oh man I think my pen is bleeding
The bars I’m about to spit might be bad
I got a heavy flow so I have a feeling
I’m going to be needing me a pad

I seize the day every chance I get
To capture the moment best I can
And though photos won’t let me forget
Words have a more emotional span

I spill my guts with every verse
Whether it’s funny, sunny, sad or mad
The feelings I feel can be quite diverse
This writing phase is a lifestyle, it’s not a fad

Whether I carry a pen, a pencil, or a quill
I’ve got to express myself right then and there
I practice it everyday trying to improve my skill
And now with a mobile device, I can do it anywhere

I write because poetry it’s a snapshot of the soul
So that in old age I’ll re-read and remember the times
My pen bleeds my passion, a testament, a goal
And you bet I’ll try my best for bloody good rhymes