What Demise of Change is this...

A slave am I,

     To the countless swells upon the synapse shores of the mind, labouring for change on behalf of hope, trapped here on this beautiful, crumbling, Sandcastle Earth. I don't want to stir things up with the social occupy style commentary spoken word poetry that pours out of me, as if I had writer's block in reverse.

     Not that anyone really reads the tide vernacular pools that settle themselves about the digital beaches of the internet's social yet invisible, or so it would seem, networks that others seem to thrive upon. How is it so? When a million poetic words have been written, then will someone grant me the most meagre recognition and say that I am an artist... At very least it could be said that 'I am a poet,' for such title is anonymous amongst artists. But this has allowed me to write whatever it is that comes forth, without hindrance of a harbinger's grotesque critique.

     As a writer any measure of 'success,' whatever that means in this world of uncaring greed, is left wholly up to the conditions created by my art. This humble text artist desires only to manifest tales upon pages from the depths of the empathetic imagination engine that ruins my peaceful sleep at night to write, write, write.

     So it is and shall be, until one day there is change...  Either way, I live to write and write to die, empty so that others might find solace and hope.

In earnest anticipation of,
Juton