My Muse has forsaken me
For television
For the diversions of
Recognition
And
Exhibition
For the games of
Fame
And
Acclaim
Forsaken me
Forgotten that she
Is a daughter of Ireland
That warrior blood
Courses within her veins
But the
Desiccation of her
Inspiration
Caused by the
Replication
Duplication
Triplication
And ultimate syndication
Of her creativity and beauty
Has left her
Broken and bitter
So, instead of a warrior
She resembles a shadow
Of a shadow
Of a shadow
Of a shadow
Of her former self
You see, lately
My Muse has been
Growing fat with American ignorance
Allowing herself to believe that beauty is only
Bone deep
That the only kind of good talk
Is cheap
She knows that the Revolution will not be televised
But she also knows
That the Revolution has not yet been fully realized
Because what was born on the page
And then crawled to the stage
Still stumbles out of Poets’ mouths
Like an insolent and willful adolescent
Because we all may think that that we can talk the talk
But most of us sure as hell don’t walk the talk
And so, my Muse is weary
And I am weary
Because she is me
And me is she
And We are finding it harder and harder
To find purpose in the pen
As we scrawl the ink deep into the page
Trying to unearth the life-blood
That once beat beneath
Because you see,
We just want to live a life
Where the truths are true
But those kind of idealistic schemes
Are only pipe dreams
When my brothers daily reinforce
The barricades of societal contradictions
With their hands that reek of money, sex, and shame
When my sisters
Are still lulled into believing
That our scared mantras should be
Gucci, Cosmopolitan, L’Oreal, Om
And not
When Poets can only change the world
Three minutes at a time
So, my Muse is desperate
And I am desperate
Because she is me
And me is she
And We can no longer satisfy
This nation’s obsession with
Youth, beauty, and artificial originality
Because you see,
We could be “just like”
But we don’t want to be your fashion plate
Your perfect mate
We can’t keep placating society
Because then we are guilty
Of imitation
And while imitation is the sincerest form of flattery
We’d only be tracing the writing on the wall
And you can’t replicate, duplicate, triplicate, or syndicate
Self Expression
You see, we could be “just like”
But We just want to be Me
And I am no Atlas,
I cannot bear the burden of this socio-poetical insurgence alone
Because the evolution of this revolution is still a long time come
And
Three minutes is never enough
Three minutes is never enough
Three minutes is never enough
But maybe this time it will be

 (:divend:)