Uninspired

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

I could write about Love, but that’s so cliché.

Another poem about a girl who I’ve met or tried to unmeet, and they’ll never hear it anyways.

The poem about a girl to be catalogued into a library of poems about girls.

All of them with lines along the lines of:

Your eyes are like…

Our love is like…

You are the sun…

Your voice makes me…

Sick of hearing poems like these.

I can turn on the radio and hear the same thing from 9/10 emcees.

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

So, maybe I can be the 1/10 emcees that writes a rap about how I stay strapped, guns clapped, hoes slapped if daddy doesn’t get his paper when his fingers snapped.

I can talk about my crimes in my rhymes turning the youth into walking land minds.

There’s just one problem:

I’m only toting backpack straps over the chips in my shoulder.

And, as a matter of fact, I’m scared of guns.

I only clap in a crowd for applause rather than clappin’ a crowd for a pause.

I don’t clap a piece.

I clap for peace.

So, this part is out of the question.

Maybe I could talk about money and cars and boats and jewelry, and all those other things that you think show your worth, while they only exploit your happiness.

And, I could call women hoes, bitches, tricks, skeezers, cock-teasers, and all those other derogatory terms we use to defile our mothers, sisters, and daughters.

But my mouth is already too full to fit a chauvinistic tongue.

Anyways it would still be something about the ladies, and we already decided its too cliché.

I wanna write, but don’t know what to say.

I could write about drugs and getting fucked up.

Because I know that you know that we all know we like to party.

Raise the roof…until it’s on fire…Oh, wait…

We don’t need no water, let that mothafucka burn!

Burn, mothafucka, burn!

Time to stop, Rock and Roll.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

But mirrors can’t see inside.

Our past has invisible wounds that stay open, and your self-esteem won’t show bruising after a beating.

The life of the Party.

I can’t be hypocritical and advise against it, but I also can’t be the devil’s advocate.

On that note about the devil, I can say I avoid politics to keep my head level.

From policies to conspiracies, communism to democracies.

They’re all just theories and I want facts.

I wanna write, but I can’t choose a topic.

Save a whale. Save a tree.  Drive a car that’s eco-friendly.

Wait…Is it still “Save the whales?”

Or is it the porpoise whose purpose is in need of some saving?

I don’t know. Don’t ask me.

I don’t even know if my Chicken of the Sea is dolphin-free.

I’m too busy illegibly scribbling on dead trees.

I don’t really drive much, but that’s more because I feel claustrophobic around the idiocy of society.

It has nothing to do with being environmentally friendly.

I throw my cigarette butts out of the window right along with this topic.

Now that I’ve got my mind going, I’ve got so much to say.

It’s time to start writing, but now writing’s cliché.