Frustration

it's a kick in the guts, 

a busted lip and a cracked rib,

it's the crap sifting through 

the hourglass neck of the 5 o'clock shadow

and the bloodshot eyes of every beaten dreamer.

let it simmer, let it scream inside your gut

like a wild mutt chained to a rusted pipe,

it's the grease and the grind, the spit and the swear,

it's the muse in a dirty dress,

dancing on the broken glass of your last good intention.

yeah, frustration, let it be the ink 

that tattoos your soul on the page,

make it punch, make it bleed, make it raw,

like the gravel voice of the last call

and the truth crawling out of a bottle.

scribble it down, the dirt under your fingernails,

the ache in your back, the stink of the sweat,

the grind, the bind, the undying need 

to spit in the eye of the gods

and laugh with a mouth full of blood.

fuel it, feel it,

let it burn you up and spit you out, 

inspiration isn't clean or kind,

it's a bar brawl, a grudge match,

the spit and the dirt and the damnation

of wanting more than what you’ve got.

so scribble, scribble, scribble,

until your fingers crack and your eyes bleed, 

let frustration fuel your fire,

chew on it, choke on it,

spit it out like a broken tooth

and call it art.