Poem In Progress

This poem is actually finished. "Poem In Progress" is its title, not its status. It's the story the poem tells that's still in the making.

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Is it right?
Does it work?
Is it good?
Does it suit me?
More important, does it suit you?
Does it suit the masses?
My masses?
The right masses?
The world?
The speck?

The words say it all,
Should say it all,
MUST be right,
MUST be organic,
Organic grown from fresh brain juice,
No unnatural thoughts!
Do the words mingle,
Cooperate,
Assemble,
Coordinate,
Stun.
Awful and awesome is a simple line,
But a deceiving one.

Here they are,
No one else,
Walked to school with a little help.
Those aren’t mine - should be, but aren’t.
Thus, aren’t right.
Good, but already proven.
The story of this realm must transcend what it should,
Talk to those who care.
It may be for me,
But it’s for you.

Can it be right?
Am I plagued?
Are my seeds sullied,
My crops corpses?
Will there ever be enough?
I like to think so.
But emperor of the universe still has enemies.

It never feels right.
It wants to be right so bad,
It wants to be perfect,
It wants to be definitive,
But that which is defined is marked down,
Ruined forever.
And that for which I give a false definition will always be my definition,
Regardless of the scoffs or smiles of others.

Swagger tells a tale, but a dirty one,
Stained with sex, drugs and rocks and bones.
They are my idols, but topple with a touch of truth.
Love is not intimacy,
Despite the preachings of our prophets.
When two sides combine,
Unite,
Explode forth in passion and sensual power!
Ejaculation may mark the end, but signifies the beginning.
Or so it should, if these gods accepted the world they’ve rejected,
Decided was a lie
Before checking if it was the truth.
When their piercings spread and infect their brains further,
Years later, they can see us and finally realize their mistakes.

But will they really?
I’m happy, or so it seems,
But can it all last?
Can the stories of those before me transform into mine?
Can the tarantulas take shape and speak my language,
Translate the English into the language of Love?
What a word.
What a crazy fucking word.
Pardon my French, and no pun defended.

I like that word.
I hope it’s mine.
I hope that word and I get to know each other.
We can have coffee one day.
I don’t drink coffee, but I sure bet it does.
It has a lot of work to do.
We’ll pass by the hours,
Learning who we really are.
And with any luck,
I’ll eventually stop and tell it
That it looks familiar.

I like that word a lot.