to hell with it all
>> Sunday, February 13, 2011
My stomach grows sick
of all these poets and artists
self procclaimed geniuses and
masters of the world
wallowing in their bohemian
misery and contempt
while pious in their fucking
snobby airs of those
who don't wear skinny jeans and
listen to their horrible music
songs they stole from us
and made their own
those pretentious fucks
These posers have nothing to
offer the world except
teenage suicide and love-sick
dribble that makes me vomit
in disgust
they know not of pain
or suffering
or lost dreams
except what they read in terrible novels
fuck them
5 comments:
hmmm - you really think they don't know of pain and suffering..? maybe in another way, another color, another intensity...never met a poet so far where i didn't sense some level of pain..introverted, extroverted, hidden, very well hidden, almost invisible...but always there..
real poets? yes, i do think they know if pain...i think all true art comes from some level of hurt wether its apparent or buried deep...but I am tired of the whiny emo kids and snobby hipsters..
aaaaaaand there is a moderate degree of ironic selfloathing involved in writing a poem that whines about how much I hate whiners....
I know what you mean, Schirling.
For me, those who feel real pain are, in a certain level, humble because they want to overcome/accept it. They are open to change. They work hard to make new things. They fight.
Most of the "poets/artists" I've met only want to masturbate over their own pain, embody the popular patterns of behavior (e.g. emos, hipsters & academics) and bore us to death with their arrogance.
Oh, and let's not forget that there's a mind-blowing difference between the pain of loosing your family or starving or suffering injustice and the pain of being a childish brat who can't cope with the absence of an xbox.
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