sprucelee:

Spiritual Materialism II

I’ve been furiously scribbling in notebooks as long as I can remember
Every and no medium
Raps, poems, graffiti, stream of consciousness
Something resembling love, anguish, cliches, break throughs of authenticity
Its kept me sane, relatively, amongst the psych ward of post-modern America, where
The boxes have been mistaken for homes
The cell blocks mistaken for communities
The programming mistaken for education, where
The billboards scream at us of our inadequacies as we,
Commute home to be hypnotized by the omnipresent glowing boxes
The television and computer screens that hum with subtle malice
Injecting their sterilizing agent into my brain, suffocating my soul
With its I.V. plugged into my cerebellum as my fingers fiendishly fidget with my phone
Anxiously waiting for texts to affirm my self-worth
I watch the screen watch me watching it
Its an existential exercise, consciousness of the unconscious and unconscionable
The big words pretend to make me look like I know what I’m talking about.
So that hopefully other kids will actually listen to what i have to say because
I feel like I’m alone in acknowledging how fucked up all of this is
So in futile symbolic defiance, I revert back to archaic pen and paper, long since been obsolete
My pen touches the page to furious scribbles
Unable to translate these maddening thoughts fast enough as they arise
My mind jumps four or five steps ahead before I have the chance to record the initial one
They sketch self-righteous revelations using superfluous diction and over-dramatized adjectives to impress significance on the piece and of the author
But I’m just trying to hold up the mirror

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