Savor the flavor even if you're the only one drinking

Though unable any yester eve to hath writ a chanson, or to-day, or to-morrow, let alone crunch out more than an A or an E chord -- which reminds me, the cheap copy's (still) crying for a new saddle -- a sermon of Kristin the Magnificent speaketh a veracity I find applicable to my style (do I have one? Sure, vanilla. Oh, I get jokes. Oh, that was no joke? Oh.) of spilling wretched verse:

"I hear them as an instrument of phonetic melody, and when I try to sing lyrics that are wrong, they stick in my throat; I feel like I'm lying and it's not until they spill out that I know I'm telling the truth."

Those that know me or have been exposed to things better left unknown know north, south, east & west of here my fancy for the florid, the purple [ed. note: the tiresome offensive], the plaster of assonance covering yawning gaps of quality or self-delusion or both -- mmm, sprinkles -- but there are those exceedingly rare occasions where, even when the emotion is, as usual, explosively histrionic &/or rich like creamery butter, the truth flows with a fright like water over a bombed-out dam, & what is truth but something we wish we wouldn't have to confront, unless you're perfect yes it's true & I'm betting at least five bucks that you're not.  

The mark of the serendipity beast trumpeted rare occasion #2 the other night, a cataract redacted here so as to not call down institutional repercussions; even a fingerful of words varnished in disguise, what would follow but truth vanishing, confession to an empty box, & that's not the point.

The problem is, for those of us who are cowards, that's the stuff that never sees anything but light of a closed notebook. Why is it a problem? Even if we do the right artistic thing & create for ourselves, we all wish to share our stuff, desiring validation, connection, a bit of "hey, I totally get what you're saying because I felt that, too, once upon a time." Even nihilistic bedroom black metallers let their discount blasphemy slither past the front stoop.

You plant, I plant, we all plant lies, tiny & white. It's just sense & sensibility in the flower garden, ever on the lookout for a rare, honest petal to pluck, soon stuck between the pages.