Lazy days are about poets swinging in ellipses… forgetting about the metaphors of the sky as they look up the blinding sunlight (?) sunshine (?) and hit up on a bunch of synonyms instead, as an… alternative maybe?
Lazy days are about poets dropping pens like Obama dropping his mic (hah!) and making stupid similes all but him could not understand. Understand. Because comprehend is too deep of a word for someone whose words cannot even fathom themselves between blurred vomits of letters, juggling itself in phrases and eventually leading to rhyme to waste time like a literary crime which makes him not sublime and it’s pathetic. Cause words are expensive and he is a poet. And it is his lazy day.
Lazy days are not just about poets. It is nothing about the poet whose sole purpose is to make art. For art is a test of patience and a poet is the art of impatience. Art is nothing but a lazy tray to a food of thought to a writer whose hunger heightens at the expanse of a bigger spotlight. And it sucks. Because lazy days are not just about spotting the light out of a dark day. It’s spotting the dark light out of a bright day. Poets don’t do it right.
Lazy days are about artists. They’re about policemen at gunpoint, but instead of raising their arms, like an unsaid act of telling they they’re unarmed or, do not harm me I am a helpless artist in a lazy day, the lazy days are about them at gunpoint not raising anything. Like a helpless artist in a lazy day. Like an unsaid act of telling, shoot me out of this lazy day.
Lazy days are about the singers, too. Some days they rely on their own awards, bubble their genres up into something that would pop in everyone else’s headphones. Singers are deceivers. They’re the lower form of poets, the laziest kinds too. They speak in verses and live off four repeating chords. Some days they rely on crossing bridges and singing the same choruses on and on and on. They’re mostly buried beneath the lazy days, and they’d never get out.
Lazy days are about logic. When emotions cannot put themselves together and Plato would be ashamed he would kick us all out of his country. He would call us weak in the mind. We would call ourselves nurtured in the heart. But if these elements are just instruments to make our body function, and it still do even in such lazy days, is it the soul that seeks for something?
Is it the soul that gets lazy and not the poet itself?
Who is the poet and what has its soul got to do with his art?
It is a lazy day, so let art be art. And let the day be lazy till, say, the world falls apart.