Gimme the goddamn organic matches motherfuckers!

In my petite hands I wield little or nothing while searching for an organic spark to come alive amongst my thoughts then travel along my veins in literary adrenaline straight into the ink chambers of my finger nails But my mental cave is damp as is the wood, so its come to this "fuck it all" and now onto the instant raving, as if enough friction might cause atoms to split and explode among my shriveled neurons I've found that listening to others advice results in fuckwits suggesting I write about roses crappy mountains shrouded in smog or some goddamn oak tree rotting in my backyard fuck nature, fuck the birds, and lets kill the bees please? Pretty sure someones gonna say "well, this sure ain't kosher, its like a freshly killed pig pommelled to death" but like everyone else, they're there to watch as the blood drips slowly to form slender rivulets of death and senseless destruction fuck you, and fuck being kosher I know, I know, anyone can sense the angst from a few miles away, which rouses the clucking of little pink tongues along with the slight shake of bloated heads-- chicken, chicken, shut the fuck up and go lay a motherfucking egg would ya? Now would be a good time to mention the benefits of a tight rolled joint, but yes of course the drug talk must be the fuel for my inspiration, the cause for writing, nevermind the fact that I'd fall asleep before managing to type out two puny meaningless words in a sad attempt to start a fresh new verse for a starting stanza. I'd regret trying to be funny, with my amphetamine version of cheech & chong trippin the internet- but I'm too stubborn and I had way too much fun doin the charade to wish I hadn't. Call this fumbling for an organic match by poppin my lid and fumigating the entire area, but lets mark this my first "self-help piece" which won't help anyone and I damn sure wouldn't want it to. Well folks suggested nature- consider this rant crafted "el natural" and plant it up your spider infested anal cellar like I'd ever stoop to the point of cranking out the generic golf club poet greeting card with a hallmark blue jay theme. If you've read this all, then its time to elect me as your emperor and scurry swiftly to fetch my jeweled jester crown shit-face. Have a nice day.