Workings of a Frustrated Writing Student
“Write quietly for the next twenty minutes”
I have no idea what to write about.
Garbage is expelled across the page.
That is what forced generation results in.
Contemporary Art in word form.
Words splattered across the lines creating
Nothing more than incoherence and empty statements.
Devices carelessly placed onto the page,
Not because they belong, but because they had to be.
These words are like fallen logs:
A collection of discarded corpses left to rot.
These words are from a broken home.
Raised on their own without care or attention.
Left to fend for themselves at the mercy of the reader.
No place, no home, no one to go back to.
No creativity can be derived from this forced labor.
We labor, just to get through every hour, of every day.
Ending up with nothing more than hollow husks “literature”.
We are all slaves under this tyrannical regime.
That is what this is.
Work without pay, its cliché.
The main product of this fruitless enterprise.
Filling empty space with empty words.
Filling empty time with empty thoughts of
Ideas and concepts that have already been beaten to death.
By forced generation.