IT’S STILL THE WORD.
Art was once a commodity, now it is a currency and you have no notes to bank upon.
You are the spendthrift of your own genius and you can not borrow against wit.
You must counterfeit to encounter it. Mount her, your Muse, and derive her. Drive her out of this fake tit town.
Syncretize the blood bled by all of your heroes. A poem is a cheque where the syllables are the zeroes.
And, a stolen idea rules an empire like Nero.
I will dance until dawn if I must to exorcise this lethargy. I will unblock the writers and I will talk.
I WILL BE HEARD.