Please me, Entertainer,
I can't think for myself;
You know what's better
Unable to discern among the filth -
I lack of a subject,
Of some individual thought,
I wish to be the pseudo-intellectual reject:
Originality is stolen - not bought.
Feed me those melodies
Paint me those words;
If only thinking were a disease,
Perhaps I could learn.
I don't understand what you say
I just need to plagiarize.
Entertainer on the stage,
Forgive me for stealing your lines.
5/31/2003
Some poetry stored in a my tiny collection of notebooks. Ever feel as if you're being forced-fed everything? I did. I felt that way about the thing I cherished greatly: music. I am only recently returning from a bog of radio silence.
I listened to the radio today for the first time in months.
