The pen touches the earth
writes of joys and sorrows.
Words of dust,
placed upon shelves of tomorrow.
“We can call ourselves poets and never know poetry.” -beth
Whethet it be poetry or art,
when this is sacrificed for popularity the artist is no longer painting art and the poet no longer writing poetry but rather,
words and drawings that resemble a mindless culture dwelling in hashtags, status bars, shock statements of a 130 characters or less to gain 1k followers and all this must be done in 1 minute or less.
Poetry and art is no longer seen in the rising of the sun, in shadows at noonday, the bomb sent to a country and yet explodes in the very streets of the country that sent it, nor in the sun that sets alone because the hashtag holds the heart of art.
“Beyond what is seen, lie shadows by which all things operate.” -beth
A body of cloth,
heads hollow, designed to be fitted over and over, manipulated by the hand.
They are all an extension of the another.
They follow what has already begun.
They enforce what the other has made possible.
They are the puppets to another’s desire,
They are the story to an already written plot.
Puppets pulled by different strings.
The same cancer, just a different strain.