i like to scribble in my notebook
trying to find some wisdom hidden
poems, songs, and pictures live there
cause they need somewhere to live in
and they jump around the pages
singing foolish hymns of sages
hoping truth is not degraded
by crayola hands that laid it

jealousy, anger, hate and worry
flood the mansions with their guns
little do they know no weapon
can destroy what’s everyone’s
and inside they find some value
though, albeit, they never change
when they roam the streets and markets
everybody knows their names

word and picture took communion
interpretation left the union
reputation, he looked somber
but the feasting it went onward
music died and party faded
words ran back to brain who made it
the notebook blanched and life eroded
then, blocked up, my head exploded

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.