The Dripping Spot

Young journeyman walking down a cityscape,
Lyrics plugged into his brain to escape.
Can't elope to a devoted thought;
His ideas spilt in need of a mop
But a plot lingers in his head
Like a paint brush with a somber red
That rocked the floor when it dropped;
The Dripping Spot.

Dripping spot,
Dull splotch that was never top notch,
Nor top screw, he just used
The few loose to glue him to the truth.
Apprentice note taker,
But a Journeyman keepsaker,
His biggest favor was denied
And sentenced with a forbidden flavor.

Rejected into ambient numbness
But is incumbent to fix this
Dull drop with cleansliness
And a fresh sense of sentences
Since the old ones were senesced
By the census that addresses him
As a dull spot dripped onto a canvas.

The Brush Dripped was a gash at
The atheistic stagnant process
Of mentality that doesn't mean morality;
A chuckle in the mind of a sane man
Mistaken as psychotic with bubonic
Spread through the head with atomic
Force that breaks the court I'm judged in.

The Painter being a deity seems to me
To be something out of fantasy fiction.
Diction misplaced along side phrasing
That dazes the mentally unconditioned.
With unconventional but considered dull
Ideas that wet the seeds of Integrity
That build a fence to defend me;
I take up my arms to make you feel uncanny.

To call my spot a splotch
Without recognition of my merit barring plot,
Is to treat my peaceful princess
Like a damsel in distress.
Let her retreat to her castle
Without the gruesome hassle and ridicule
You try to pull with the mask of a friend
As you pretend to hoist her until the end.

But my princess can walk,
Like the journeyman who can talk
With the same force in lyrics heard,
Observed in his own particular phrasing,
Not less than amazing to those that know
He isn't a splotch of paint but a drop of blood;
With an absurd point of view I go
Through this world trying to rise above.