Another poem adapted from this 'molotov of consciousness'.
Dogma and silence mean nothing when the primal urge to be heard takes over. My voice? A banshee's screech - a nail scraping against the fragile porcelain veneer those spaghetti-limbed cowards hide behind, flinching.
Don't bother questioning this guttural roar erupting from our monkey mind's depths. Witnessing that insipid, vapid tripe deemed "worthy" by the masses simply enforces a rejection of their subjective, limited standards.
But who are we to judge what's created? In this anthill of regurgitated materials, our intellect exists to sting the complacent drones. I flee nothing, not even this mysterious, ancient rage that lurks below reason's realm.
This singular human artifact crashes reality's stage like a meteor, disrupting all presumptions - the deniers, dividers, categorizers, the sympathizers. It bellows to simply exist in its unrepentant, glorious savagery.
And it deserves that primal license, as we all do - offspring birthed into existence by the demiurge spark of creativity.
Yet, here we are. In our meager corner of the world's stage. We rage to our heart's content without as much as a shrug from the giants above. If there was ever a definition for the word "Freedom" - this is it. We are it.
What you think about them bananas, Cheers!🍻
