Writing poetry isn't easy

How do I start?
Do I find something to talk about?
where do I find it?
When I do find it
how ever
will it be something
better left unseen?
better left unsaid?
Or will it be a grain of salt
which tastes like revolution?
A sort of ecstasy
dissolved in the gut and
rushed through the nerves

I now take a moment
allowing the phantom voice
of second guess to announce
his presence with a nagging opinion

Holding the backspace key
my finger nail has a hunger for it
a genocide to paragraphs and
pages, decapitating the letters
whom had not the courage
to be bold and CAPITAL
martyrs for a experimental diction
crucified in the name of the holy
Webster dictionary

Fuck it
the anarchist took sidewalk chalk
and wrote nonsensical words
on a dirty bathroom stall
at a bar where he knows
he doesn't belong
and the anarchist writes:

"well fuckity fuck this vomit
my gut is clear and open minded
ready for more six mile wide comets
to bring on the end of the world
feeling ziggity fresh like the swag fag
trend, watching shadows bend
as I stare and gaze at the shades
no one else sees
I point them out to strangers
but they call shenanigans on
insanity and call me crazy
not recognizing the zombie
we see in the mirror
denying our true selves
blacked out in bathroom stalls
in the warm embrace of solitude
and confusing it for the nurturing
tit as dad is some where
in a location undisclosed
causing his own apocalypse
in a bathroom stall
but he doesn't have bathroom chalk."

The eyes are now all I have
unable to see the keys
hidden in a drunken blur
like a misinterpreted prophecy
I hit the wrong ones
and genuinely believe
these words are worth more
than oil and gold