Byline: Art School Dropout

Buford Youthward

A voodoo sound surrounds the grounds.

The little kid must leave the nest, forego the past for a journeying.

A refrigerator magnet shouts a simple truth: freedom is the absence of obligation. Set off, go.

Found guilty of tradition omission, I act on habit, action and belief. Can music be beautiful if it is high, fast and loud?

The kid wonders and keeps moving.

The ice hydra and the fire hydrant cultivate creative passions crashing interruptions. A shadow gets cast, an idea nurtured.

Sometimes ceremonial silver foil foils all looking for a shine. For now, ridding the fear of censure for the powerless means the party's over for punks.

In the gutter with guns and butter, kicking the clutter, shrink and shudder.

Man, what a mother.

I get a grip on good knowledge. The best artists have taste, courage, individuality and irreverence. I know that, yet have no issue wanting to make money off my music while coming to terms with any and all who want to make money off of me.

Double down on life, track the race and bet the trifecta knowing nothing is perfect. Prison sentences of creativity, music and graffiti are a blessing and a curse, and with all great curses and blessings, the greater the intensity, the greater the irresponsibility feels.

Pondering the need to find somewhere to live but having nowhere to go, another art school dropout drops her heart, drops the player, who is now the played.

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarette. Poor little kid, I hope she gets home all right.

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