A Century of Never Ending Zen
I was inspired by guys, who thrived to be alive but died by twenty five. My innocence was left abandoned in the lost and found box. It’s not that I lost it, I simply lost my use for it. It was never anything but a burden to begin with.
Meanwhile they can’t decide if I’m more martyr or monster. The answer to their barrage of shotgunned foxhole prayers or cause of their collective nightmares. Is he praying or preying? Is he judicial, judgmental or just another Judas?
I stuffed the world’s collective hope in a perfectly symmetrical pine box and sermonized the memorial services of dreams killed by time clocks.
I’ve enraged entire races by freeing those who were slaves to their wages. Smiles went AWOL and hate formed on their scorned and mourning faces. Please don’t deceitfully speak to me about peace treaties in war torn places. It’s a shameful disgrace how some are raised, nobody’s born a racist.
The Pulitzer prize committee persecuted me for poisoning their favorite poet. My plan was to claim my favorite work of theirs as my own and say I wrote it. Literary journals from here to Wakanda would give it play and pay to quote it. I’d shamefully self promote it and be painfully famous before you know it.
But before I could, the writing Gods struck me with fucking lightning rods. And rightfully so, if they hadn’t I might be reciting the lesser known works of the likes of Poe on The Tonight Show.
It was just then I realized, the wide eyed child inside had died and the guy who survived was not one I recognized. One who found a way to tell his own truth and bring death to your lies. I became obsessed with jotting down deeply provocative lines, these internal journals of mine are where finely disguised lessons reside.
Ever since then, enemies have been left defenseless against the relentlessness of my pen. And at that very moment began a century of never ending zen.
