What on Earth Are my words enough to knock you down, Kick in your teeth and make you frown? Be the last thought of waking day, digested, growing cold and heavy in the pit of your stomach, waiting to strike. Soon as you lay down, they slide back up your digestive tract, the acid burns with each breath, they slowly squeeze your throat and smother you into insomnia. Only to wake up hours later within minutes, and they are found on the front of your mind. Branded. Hot, seeing spots like dot mirage through scarlet heat. Can my words make you feel like your every stitch of cotton was forgotten and your new clothes this new suit isn't suitable to wear in public, or private or anywhere in between. Can they make you feel like the flag on a mailbox old, dated, irrelevant, sure you know why it's there but do you even care. Can my words make you smile? Can my words make you let out eruptions that'll make St. Helen blush, laugh like jackhammer, cough up coffins spit stuttering sarcastic syllabus. A symphony of joy, every note on every instrument in the orchestra played by one pair of lungs, tears trailed to crescendo. Could a stroke of my sentences soothe your stress? Wrap sunny San Diego sand gently around your feet. Melt away down, dissipate daily disappointing dilemmas. Everyone think you have to pee, but you are actually just so excited to hear the next ones.. Because your words do that to me too. What on Earth are we to do?

Freedom is creativity. Creativity is freedom. Each one of us hold the key to our kingdom. Creativity is freedom. Freedom is creativity. Wherever I look inspiration finds me. A spill on the floor, A spot on the wall, Well that doesn't seem creative at all. What shape does it take? What gears does it turn? The pen in my pocket is starting to burn. I want to pull every star down from the sky, To fill the inkwell with light-years of dye. I'll shoot my pen across prose, Some smell like garbage, Some smell like a rose. Freedom is creativity. Creativity is freedom. Free to make mistakes, and then some. Creativity is freedom. Freedom is creativity. Let mistakes mold you, take it from me. A cut on your hand, A break in your heart, These accidents will help mold your art. How do you move on? How does it feel? Creativity solves your problems. That's real! Our ancestors tired of caves in the dark, So they hit together stones for a spark. Spawn of this fire’s still lit, Every stroke of your brush, Every poem you spit. Free is creative. Creative is free. So express yourself, It's the best way to be. -Clint DeCamp

The FIX I picked up the pencil and immediately felt my thoughts depreciate. I haven't written a thing. And my words are already temporary. What good are they if I can just go back and FIX anything I want with my erasure later? I prefer the PEN! Life it's not permanent. I have a few choice words that should be. Be brave! Unsheath your pen. Share your life in your words, every thought, fleeting moment, smell, taste, sight, sound and feeling. All that power. All that love. I am a guy. A forty-two year old white guy. No. I'm not a cop. Just a guy. The shortest four letter word in the dictionary. Thick skinned and callous from years of work. But pierce me? Cut me deep? And it all pours out. That's why I don't have any tattoos? Because my ink, is on the inside. And now I'm alone, in my bed, watching “The Break-up”. Thanks a lot Netflix. Laying here dulling this lazy pencil on a Saturday night. And my wife, sleeps in the guest room. Not that shooting up some Xbox would be better. Might be why I find myself here. I needed an intervention. We all do. Get away from your FIX. Life does not. Life doesn't. Life will not autocorrect! I'm a bad speller. I don't care. Don't let the spelling ruin the message. Don't let the mistake ruin your life. So, what's your FIX? Is it caffeine? Or being mean? Is it smoke? To tell a joke? Cocaine? Are you insane? Keep liquor handy? Maybe it's candy? European sweets? Or savory meats? Fidget spinners? And takeout dinners? Is it a person? Or fun just searchin’? Maybe your kids? Taking highest bids? Fresh faces? lonely places? Is it your work? Being a jerk? Is it your phone? You aren't alone. Going “live Facebook”? That selfie look? We love to boast. Avocado toast? Your Instagram? Poetry slam. Karate kicks? Drinks to mix? Is it being white? Or thinking you're right? Is it PlayStation? Or masturbation? Petting hounds? Melodic sounds? Is it justice? Maybe lust is? Is it your wife? Pain and strife? The movie theatre? Do you hit and beat her? Or nightly news? Making sure YOU choose? Your indecision? Maybe religion? Your crucifix? Is it Netflix? Fuck Netflix. Fuck your FIX. Are we really all that broken? I was her FIX once. No, once we fixed each other. But, now she says we are broken. She has been saying it for a while, but until she said “divorce” I wasn't listening. I'm listening now. Please don't walk away. We can….. fuck it….

Can I tell you about my favorite teacher? More than mom and dad or any preacher. Now ladies this ain't misogyny, Known the educator since I was 3. Her guidance has been heaven sent, Rest assured, no "Accident” You have your diploma? that's cute. But for me there is no substitute. Painfully honest, but never fake, The lessons I've learned from Ms Take. It's true she sounds like a deceiver, I'll attempt to make you a believer. For every session she's taught me, Helped consecrate my empathy. Like…. Stumbling out of fancy bars. Mis-trusting friends or crashing cars, Not saying "No". Failing a class. Rushing just to bust my ass. Neglecting my love, or telling lies, Hiding my feelings, smile disguise. Waking in a stranger's bed, Not thinking I was wrong for what I said. Starting and then dropping out, Because, I knew what life was all about! Seeing a mirror thinking "I'm all that." Eating too much sugar, salt and fat. No condolences when wife was a Rick, wreck. No "Alt-F7" to run spell check, I've burnt myself, and others too. Even tried my foot in the other shoe. She is such a disastrous flirt. Each lesson smarts. They really hurt. My tutor always seems to be bent, On spending my last single cent. I think this is the final, just a mid term, To retest things I should have learned. The biggest part of my frustration, When Miss Take fucks me, is it masturbation? I am still alive, here I stand. What's the next lesson she’s planned. If you listened, I hope you agree, By now I have earned my degree. After all the things that Ms Take took, I kept my positive outlook. Now I am older, wiser, grey-er, I never claimed to be a player. But to the top is where I still aim. Got the best instructor of life's game. Without her where would I be now? Maybe less wrinkled above my brow? Tears and scars prove that I'm livin'. But, can I ever be forgiven?

People pods. People pods. Perfectly polished, pedal pushing, performance people pods. Pearly Pink Porsche, purple Peugeot, periwinkle Plymouth, plus plaid patterned painted people pods. Petroleum propelled, pollution producing, parallel parked people pods.Parliament puffing pimps, player pose. Potential profile pic? People pod paradox. People pursue pay. Professors, paper pushers, parcel/postal/pizza pie porting, people potentially purchase pretentious, pricey people pods. Persuasive people pod peddlers procure payments. People pod prohibition,potentially penniless path. Pabst pint, Pabst pint, Pabst pint... Pickled pub patron produces pickup pile-up, paramedics purge partially paralyzed patient. Potential persistent prescription practice. Pill poppin’. Personally prefer piloting people pods, passing perspiring pedestrians. Poised, perfect perpendicular posture, plateaued posterior, pumping poetic pop pieces. Pushy passengers proclaim path proficiency. Please. Police pods pass plainly poisonous planned Parenthood protesters pestering pregnant patrons. Protecting people? Pssshhh.Primarily pale, pampered peace promising politicians produce personal profit producing policies. Politics. Police pods patrol projects, pursuing potential problems, “predominantly” poor perpetrators. Policeman point privileged pistol. Pow! Paid probation. Prior provocations. Professional players peaceful protest prompts President “Pussy pincher’s” pissy preschool press proclamations. Patriotism? People pods, people problems. Potentially pushing people pro parting planet permanently. Pine people pods. Praying, praying, praying. Perhaps paradise, parts people's prejudice, parts people presumptions, parts people's pride, plus parts people's prized properties properly. People Pods. Peace-