Babel

Suffice to say that inspiration has taken its leave.    
I am left hanging between the wind and the still,    
groveling through words to birth art.    
But imagine is all I can do.  
Vexed by this dilemma the strands of my patience run thin.    
Pushed by this anger I burst out of my domicile to cool off.    
And cool off I must, to write again.
Anger seldom diminishes inspiration and forces exasperation.    
Expressions knit onto my skin,    
I lack the skill to hide my feelings because I am impertinent.    
I care not for pleasantries and courtesy for the undeserving.    
I am selfish to my own accord and that is how my world turns.    
Fuck those Communists and Capitalists and Philanthropists,    
Socialist and materialists,    
forgetting what they truly are as they squander on the ideologies of fallen men.    
That is not enlightenment.    
They are merely mongers of minutiae.    
Not meant to be learned by the parsimonious of the lot; there are plenty.  
To find inspiration from such pits is to condemn the true self.    
To fake your existence by existing as an anomaly is,  
ecumenically, the most wicked thing one could do.  
It is in hate that we see clearer.    
Our volition is channeled to one and only one outcome. Resolution.    
And the world makes sense again.    
For no matter the cost, we shall never see our wretched plight,    
unless we truly hate ourselves.    
This plight isn't an economic or social one,    
but a Babel of our own ignorance.    
Sitting here on the edge of the curb staring into the sun    
I feel enlightened like I never could in my solitude.    
As I slowly lose my sight, I begin to see.  
My mind's eye stirs from its stupor.    
And inspiration pours forth, never to be expressed again.