I'm a Hustler Baby

(Oh) Dear!!!,....

I hate saying that it's necessary
BUT!!...it's necessary!..
playing my part as
part time artist / part time secretary
chasing dreams in a game of phone Tag
feeling like Im always "It!".
But I mean sh!t..
if you ask me what I really want to do
I'd tell it to you like this
I'd rather play hide and seek
with a blind business man
and paint for a straight week
without having to discuss business plans
-in demand.
Go to a beach without feeling like
im always breakdancin' on quick sand,
but damn!
for some reason
I can't help but listen to the clock tick talk
as if something in my mailbox is about to BLOW!.
so..
often my peace of mind is interrupted by..
"Peace out!, sorry old soul, but I gotta go!"
I gotta get that dough
so I can buy more time
to tell time to just...
slowwwwwww dooooooooooown
..for more than just a couple kodak moments..
I want to be able to lie down on the clouds
come down with the rain
and take more than just a couple of quick sips
from the ocean when I'm feeling thirsty
explore the world like a gypsy
and arrive at every unknown destination
as if i'm always bright and early -for a change!
...but then I wake up from my dreams again..
..the phone rings,
the e-mails comes in.
and its re:ad, write, send, re:peat
re:ad, write, send
re:ad, write, send the agreement
to buy more time
to tell time
that I would rather spend time
killing time LIVING
than spend time worried about rent
sifting through bills
and parking fines..
and the more I re:ply
to the time that flies by
the more I re:re:re:alise that
time is an immortal
on this beautiful battlefield
where only in my imagination
can it be killed
but the system we live in
says even that is on a time limit
the system we live in
makes you want to spend your hours like minutes.
it says use your shield
more than your sword
if you want more than
a standard standard of living
I'm stubborn I suppose?
A poet with a pen who wont stop swinging!
singing!!...
no I'm not out to be rich..
but Id be lying if I said
"oh sure! I'll be I satisfied being poor!"
not being able to support
the idea of being able to afford
the time
to tell time
that I deserve more..
than just two cents
so pass the jar around
and help me pay rent.

Saying my Please and thanks
all the way to the bank,
Sincerely,
The Clark Kent of time well spent

I'm a writer, not a lover"

*Found this from an old blog in 2007 and edited it it it it.*

When I recite love poems to you...

Do my love poems leave you with questions?
And if so, are any of those questions:
"well maybe now is a good time
to leave the room without him noticing?"

Am I really that bad at communication?
or is it just my body language
telling you I don't speak that
"uuuber hot stuff"?

What is it that triggers your
middle fingers to have sexual intercourse
with your ear lobes while making that
'Ohmagawd someone definitely farted!'-face?

Shall I just continue to threaten you
with the sharpest parts of my
shattered heart and pretend that
you really dig my writing?

Or shall I stop?
and assume that you
have no interest whatsoever
in this dashing, bold and beautiful
Cunning Linguist!
...
Okay, alright, fine,
Don't wet your pants I'll Stop!
...going to the Nightclub,
to recite love poems,
to drunk bar stars
with lower IQ's
than their self esteem!