Cliché Poem To A Brilliant Poet Poem

WRITTEN BY: JUSTIN BLACKBURN

Write from your soul.
Eventually your soul will start writing from you.

If you do not have a soul, don’t worry.
Find the most masculine muscular man closest to you.
Kiss him square on the lips.
After he beats your ass call your mother.
Tell her to write everything you say down.
Congratulations, you got your first poem.

For Godsakes don’t stop there.
Whatever you do, don’t listen to your teachers.
That is why they are teachers,
they don’t know shit
so they don’t know you.

The real poets are poets.
You won’t meet them until you become one.
Until then hang out in the forests, the alleyways,
the wrinkled faces, go fishing for birds,
feed your stomach clouds, rip dollar bills off trees,
play football for the coach, study trashcans,
and live in a yellow submarine.
Hang around pretentious professors pretending
you are incredibly deep while making fun of yourself
out loud in front of their family’s God.

You are confused.
Life is war to you.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
No one understands you.
Great, you don’t understand yourself!
All you need to know is you don’t need to know.
Keep loving, keep fucking, keep sucking, keep living,
keep giving, keep laughing, but most of all keep writing.
Realize the best poems are written by the air
in the tragic part of the night,
by the waves of the ocean,
and through the minds of children.

See everyone as a poem, write them.
If people think you’re fucking crazy take it
as a complement, you’re on the path to greatness!
If you’re not receiving the attention you desire,
if you’re finding yourself mediocre and bitter,
eating your way into winter, don’t kill yourself.
Smoke weed by a fire.
Take your pen to a book store and change the titles around.
Make a beautiful stoned hilarious poem of it.

If that doesn’t work, find a person in a wheelchair.
See the overwhelming beauty in their heroicness.
Follow them until you have written fifty poems.

Invite your friends to a coffee shop to listen to you read.
When no one shows up, read your poem
like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to the universe.
Walk out of the empty room like Prince.

Now give your poems to everyone you can.
I am talking parents, gas station employees,
the thunder, the lightening.
I am talking hot chicks, famous fuckers,
guilty prisoners, rising rivers.

Most importantly find the highest esteemed
bullshit licking literary journal.
Send your poems there along with a letter to the editor explaining how every poem you write
is because you want to fuck his son.

When you get the rejection letter, glue it to the refrigerator. Buy yourself roses.
You have passed with flying colors!

Now it is time to find a lover.
Someone fifty times more fucked up than you are.
Someone who knows from the start the joke is on you.
Someone who can shit out your heart without ever tasting it. After they fuck your friends lay in the darkness.

When you come out you will be broke, empty,
talking shit to intimate objects, exactly
where you need to be to face the next demon head on.
For this part of the journey you’ll need the fungus
that grows off cow shit.
Don’t be scared it is like pussy,
don’t think about the taste just let it become you.

The feeling you’re getting like there is more
to life than you could imagine
yet less then you can ever comprehend.
Write that down, that feeling is the place to be.

Become grass, write how about grateful you are
to be walked on.
Become wind, write how about grateful you feel
to kiss a tree.
Become the demon within, write about how grateful
you are to die.
Become yourself write about how grateful you are
to write.

Kiss the ground and fondle the sky.
You’re ready to love everything!
Now you understand the true reason you chose to be a poet.
It is a quick nonstop route to your spirit.
Now let everything be beautiful.
Speak it, feel it, write it, live it, hear it.
You are apart of everything.
Nothing else matters.

I love you, brilliant poet.
Take my advice or don’t.
I don’t give a fuck, either way.
It is your life.
Live it however you like.
I love your life regardless.
All roads lead to where no roads can go.
Namaste.

THIS POEM AND MORE IN:Farting Fire Book Cover