basquiat taught
the frenzy of creation
of absorbing every
tiny detail of
the world around you
and with a singular
focus toward always
twisting inspirationz
into fresh wounds on
the corpse of beauty

the same grave
remains to hold
our fetid remains
but those scars
that is forever

dontthink
dontbreathe
just create

my friends fret
over book sales and
feeling insecure
in the fear of
missing out
and they look at me
not understanding
how little it means
to me in the grand
scheme of things

if in a hundred years
someone stumbled upon
one of my thousands of
shitty odes or one of
my hundred or so
even shitter stories
and finds the spark
to create something
anything at fucking all

that’s worth more
than a phony trophy
or any material gain

to perpetuate art
the greatest of all
humanity’s legacy
because people forget
the most incredible
scientific advances
started as a dream
a sketch or scribble

this life is temporary
what we leave behind
defines us far more accurately
than the lies they spin
once we have turned to dust