“Hey beautiful, how are you?”
endears Justin Blackburn on his website encouraging readers to love freely without restraint, and without question.
Author, poet, comedian, and inspirational speaker, no matter the area of Blackburn’s success, all his sayings lead back to the fundamentals of love—to love who you are, where you stand, and to simply reflect it all upon the world.
Blackburn’s gentleness is easily shown in one of his pieces, “All The Fat Kid Needs Is A Hug”, a poem that touches on the sensitivities of self-image, mental illness, and poverty, where love is again key to overcoming a given situation.
Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube are just a few places where one can discover for themselves the depths of Blackburn’s heart.
Acoustic Ink is honored to showcase the work of this remarkable man—a modern-day John Lennon, to be so bold—whose cause for love is nothing short of invincible.
Justin’s interview with our team:
Q. How many hours a day do your write?
A. I love writing so as much as I can. It is different each day and depends on what I am doing. Yesterday I woke up in Asheville, North Carolina next to this beautiful woman who I am blessed to be in love with who happens to be my girlfriend so I chilled with her for a while before I came back to Greenville to meet up with a client who I gave a Intuitive Inner Healing to. Then I came home and had about an hour to write before I had to get ready for a stand up comedy show I was performing in but instead I watched TV. So yesterday I didn’t write at all. But the day before that I was nude modelling during the for an art class and all these incredible feelings were pouring through me so I came home and wrote for like two hours before I left to do a comedy show. So that was awesome. So yeah as much as I can I guess unless I want to watch TV.
Q. Do you have any writing superstitions, or quirks?
A. Yes, I like to write using only a quill ink pen while wearing a white, fashionable wig. Just kidding, um, I feel like I have developed a great relationship with my Laptop that I have had for like nine years and it is falling apart and the keyboard doesn’t work but for some reason I think I feel most comfortable writing on it. So I guess that is a quirk.
Q. How do you deal with personal doubters?
A. I love them with my whole heart and sometimes I laugh at them. Honestly I have always had lots of confidence in myself so doubters don’t really do anything to me. Plus I don’t have a personal attachment to my writing so if someone thinks it sucks I don’t really care and can either understand where they are coming from or understand they are not open to my beauty due to them not being open to their own divinity.
Q. When you were growing up, what made you want to become a writer?
A. Having an abundance of energy and ideas and wanting to share them and feeling like my ideas and energy are very helpful to people and that my viewpoint is lacking in the world. Plus it always came so easily and natural for me. It was never a thought of this is what I want to do and more of a thought of this is what I am doing!
Q. At what point did you decide to take writing seriously?
A. I take everything seriously and nothing seriously at the same time. I just always wrote and do my best to get it out there. I feel like I am getting better at both but it was never a conscious choice to take it more seriously or less seriously but a learning and unlearning process sort of like being alive. I have always been in love with the written word especially my own writing and expressing and being creative.
Q. Describe a perfect setting where you can get writing done.
A. Anywhere. Anytime. But I guess the perfect situation would be on the Island of Regeneration surrounded by meditating angels.
Q. Where do you look for inspiration?
A. Everywhere. Everyone.
Q. What kind of books did you read when you were growing up, if any?
A. I never read much growing up. School sort of made me dislike reading because they forced it on me and what they wanted me to read I never really dug. I always found the books pointless and boring, not relating to me at all. However I did like certain poets but since my teachers had no idea what the poets I loved were talking about like Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson I had to discover lots of things on my own. I didn’t start reading a lot till after I finished my first book Gifted Disabilities when I was like 20. Then I read a lot for a while. Lots of spiritual new age books and poetry and Jack Kerouac.
Q. What is the biggest problems writers face today?
A. Themselves, not loving themselves unconditionally and perfectly for being the divine beings they are. But that does make for some amazing writing! It is all a process, it is all a journey and I feel like everyone is perfect and doing perfectly what they need to be doing for themselves and their own progression so I would say “no problems.”
Q. What’s your favorite part of writing?
A. I love it all so much I don’t think I can pick a favorite.
Q. Who would you consider to be your top three favorite writers?
A. Justin Blackburn. Esther Hicks. Mat Cothran.
Q. Got any advice for younger/aspiring writers?
A. Yes I do. I actually have a poem called Cliche Poem To A Poet Poem, you can listen to here… http://normalhumanbeing.bandcamp.com/track/cliche-poem-to-a-poet-poem
Q. When not writing, how do you recharge your creative batteries?
A. My creative batteries are always flowing in full force. I need to do the opposite and take time to chill them out.
Q. How do you get past all the frustrations that come with trying to be a successful writer?
A. I do my best to fully love myself and love everyone else in the world and understand I am creating my own reality and everything is perfect in the present moment and happening perfectly for my perfect purpose of understand deeper the divine nature of all things love.
Q. What do you do when you have several book/piece ideas?
A. I usually do my best to combine them all. I really like lots of different ideas in a single thing.
Q. What genre(s) describes your work?
A. Poetry. Fiction. Non-fiction. New Age. Self Help. Post Modern Woody Allen Death Riding Acoustic Funk. The Marx Brothers Have Finally Gone and Teamed Up With Missy Elliott. Love Everything All The Time Love.
Q. What kind of music do you favor? Does it reflect in your writing?
A. I love music so much and it inspires me so much in my writing. So many bands and songwriters have inspired probably a ton more than poets or authors. Recently I have been really inspired by Coma Cinema who is coming out with a new album that is going to be amazing. John Prine is someone as of late who has been inspiring me a lot. And always The Beatles and Bob Dylan and all those Gods.
Q. What/who motivates you to write?
A. Love and beauty and comedy and will and joy and Inspiration from the unknown and known worlds.
Q. Do you follow a writing system, or routine?
A. Just my own heart and soul.
Q. What is your least favorite part of being a writer?
A. Right now it is not having a widely read successful book that is inspiring millions of people but I am currently changing that. Then after that nothing. I love being writing if that is what I am.
Q. Do you have your work showcased on any website?
A. Yes I have one poem at www.justinblackburnlovesyou.com And lots of poems at normalhumanbeing.bandcamp.com And my good brother Jeremy Washington is currently building me an incredible website so I will have a lot more on justinblackburnlovesyou.com real soon.
Q. Where could poetry lovers find your work and/or see your performing schedules?
A. My latest book of poems “You Are Not A Normal Human Being” is available on www.virgograypress.com And that book is incredible and has a lot of variety of my writing from the inspirational to the hilarious to the fear and loving it which are both inspirational and hilarious. And soon I will have lots of it up on www.justinblackburnlovesyou.com
Q. With all the negativity surrounding society as a whole and our youth today, do you believe writing can be use as a tool to help our generation and future ones to come?
A. Yes. I believe it always has and always will. When we write, most of us write from a deeper place than where we consciously live on a daily basis so through writing we can find easier ways to be the people we truly want to be after all the negativity is loved and transformed.
Q. What has been your proudest moment as a writer?
A. Probably when I got an email that my third book “Farting Fire” was going to be published by Virgogray Press. It was the summer of 2009 and I was at work and I read the email and started crying in complete appreciation! It was truly beautiful. I have always had a goal to write something that will inspire millions so I usually don’t get too proud over anything that I do if something happens that is great. Yeah I am sort of a jackass in that way to myself but lately I have started to transcend that and really love and appreciate everything about the present and myself even if it isn’t what I deeply want so hopefully I will have some more crying in appreciation moments cause that felt amazing.
Q. How would you like to be remembered by those who read/see your work?
A. However they want. What would make them feel the best.
Q. Share with us a fun fact about yourself.
A. I am a stand up comedian. That is pretty fun and awesome. I have a comedy CD that is hilarious at email@example.com Also I do my best to love everything and do my best to have fun with everyone.
Q. What does the future hold for you as a writer?
A. I have two incredible books that I am manifesting literary agents for right now. One is a spiritual help book called “Enjoy The Irresistible Present” which is all about how everyone is beautiful. The other is a wildly, hilarious novel based on me called “The Upper Middle Class Suburban White Boy Enlightened Guru Blues” After that, the unlimited potential is beyond my wildest imagination.
Visit here to buy Justin’s newest book ‘Child Be Wild’.
Below you can enjoy a few written and performed poems by Justin.
Cliche Poem To A Poet Poem
Write from your soul
eventually your soul will start writing from you.
If you do not have a soul don’t worry,
find the most masculine muscular man closest to you,
kiss him square on the lips,
after he beats your ass,
call your mother and tell her to write everything you say down.
Congratulations, you got your first poem.
For God sakes don’t stop there,
whatever you do don’t listen to your teachers
that is why they are teachers,
they don’t know shit
so they don’t know you.
The real poets are poets.
You won’t meet them until you become one
until then hang out in the forests, the alleyways, the wrinkled faces,
go fishing for birds, feed your stomach clouds, rip dollar bills off trees,
play football for the coach, study trashcans, and live in a yellow submarine,
hang around pretentious professors pretending you are incredibly deep
while making fun of yourself out loud in front of their family’s God.
You are confused.
Life is war to you.
That is perfect.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
No one understands you.
Great, you don’t understand yourself.
Don’t worry about it.
All you need to know is you don’t need to know.
Keep loving, keep fucking, keep sucking, keep living, keep giving, keep laughing,
most of all keep writing.
Realize the best poems are written by the air in the tragic part of the night,
by the waves of the ocean, through the minds of children, by the Beatles,
and on the Drive Thru menu at McDonalds.
Now that you know this see everyone is a poem, kindly write them.
If you find everyone criticizes you and thinks you are fucking crazy,
take it as a complement, that means you are on the path to greatness.
If you are not receiving the love you desire,
if you are finding yourself mediocre and bitter,
eating your way into winter.
Don’t kill yourself.
Smoke weed by the fire.
Take your pen to a book store.
Change the titles around.
Make a beautiful stoned hilarious poem of it.
Laugh at your poetry.
If that doesn’t work, find a person in a wheelchair.
See the overwhelming beauty in their preciousness.
Follow them until you have written fifty poems.
Once you got your poems congratulate yourself.
Now invite all your friends to a coffee shop to listen to you read them.
When no one shows up give your poems different personalities
and read them to the wall.
Now walk out of the empty room like Lou Reed.
You are doing perfect, now it is time to give your poems to everyone you can,
I am talking parents, gas station employees, the thunder, the lightening
I am talking hot chicks, famous fuckers, guilty prisoners, rising rivers.
Most importantly find the highest esteemed bullshit licking literary journals.
Send your poems there along with a letter to the editor
explaining how every poem you write is because you want to fuck his son.
When you get the rejection letter glue it to the refrigerator,
buy yourself roses.
You have passed with flying colors!
Now it is time to find a lover.
Someone fifty times more fucked up than you are.
Someone who knows from the start the joke is on you.
Someone who can shit out your heart without ever tasting it.
After she fucks all your friends lay in the darkness for two straight weeks.
When you come out you will be broke, empty, talking shit to intimate objects
and exactly where you need to be ready to face the next demon head on.
For this part of the journey you will need the fungus that grows off cow shit.
Don’t be scared it is like pussy don’t think about the taste just let it become you.
Now the feeling you are getting
like there is more life than you could imagine
yet less then you could ever comprehend.
Write that feeling down, that feeling is the place to be.
Become the grass write about how grateful you feel to be walked on.
Become the wind write about how grateful you feel to kiss a tree.
Become the demon within write about how grateful you are to die.
Become the human being write about how grateful you are to ask why.
Now kiss the ground, fondle the sky, you are ready to love everything.
Now you understand the real reason you chose to be a poet.
It is a quick nonstop route to your spirit.
Now let everything be beautiful.
Now speak it, feel it, write it, live it, hear it.
You are apart of everything.
Nothing else matters.
I love you, young poet.
Take my advice or don’t.
I don’t give a fuck, either way.
It is your life.
Live it however you like.
I love your life regardless.
All roads lead to where no roads can go.
I want to pray with you
in the immaculate heart of Mother Mary.
I want to be telepathic with you,
a cruise ship of your skin on an ocean of my blood.
I want to follow your kindness into the temple of your intuition
and give infinite blessings to Mother Earth.
I want to hear you sing off key in an apple orchard,
watch waves of love lift me into the spirit of your kitchen.
I want to express my desire for world peace
in the one place everyone can hear it, your soul.
I want to cuddle with your dreams,
make you love your tired body.
I want angels to marry us in the trust of now.
I want to be your angel,
a guitar forever tuned to twilight.
I want to know why I am so beautiful standing next to you.
I want to bring my pictures to your altar,
wash your feet with my hair.
I want to feel you free in the sweet holy ocean of energy glowing
across the imaginary memory of my emotional body.
I want to be the one you love,
travel through Mary Magdalene country hand and hand.
I want you to laugh at me for still being alive.
I want to feel the insides of your touch,
reinvent rock and roll.
I want to sleep with you in the lilies,
love purely our entire eternal soul family.
I want to let go of all my silly dreams
and watch the wind blow you back to me.
I want to embrace the world running away,
thank ourselves for remembering our souls.
I want to dance beneath the daring darling stars
with just my heart and watch my eyes become the sea.
I want to never again have to believe.
I want to be.
The process of remembering compassion
has brought me to your kitchen to dance,
will you take my hand?
There is a wilderness in the schoolyard
which can be captured by anyone
but only understood by a child.
White waves of one untouchable lifelong
heartbeat silences the children
but only for a second.
They begin to play again
as the teachers feel their childhood coming in
like lollipops growing out of the tops of their heads.
They remember their first kiss in the grass, out of bounds,
and hand a lollipop to the lonely kid on the brick wall
The clouds above breathe waterfalls of wonder.
The little boy’s hearts drum up thunder
while protecting the entire world from their older brothers
with wild indigo imaginations.
The little girls practice happiness and creation.
They know the school house can never close down
for they will forever be learning the lessons
of motherhood and sisterhood.
If you watch calmly there is an order to the wilderness in space
just like the way the children play,
swinging on the monkey bars before tasting the ghost paste.
The green grass feels the pleasant little feet
and knows to never complain.
The oddball, troublemaker, outcast,
lies in the green of the grass, believing in everything
Jobs are for rednecks.
College is for cutie pies.
Money is impotent.
Problems are lies.
All people are lovable.
All people are suicidal.
Getting offended is awesome.
Feeling embarrassed is sweet.
It’s as easy said as done.
Anything is impossible.
I am an idiot.
Great minds don’t think.
Your God is whatever you want your God to be.
Politicians are the most popular porn stars.
Death is a disease.
Knowledge knows nothing.
Perception is everything.
Aliens are everywhere.
Everyone has angels.
Every pun is intended.
Every thought is infinite.
The world needs all her flowers.
It’s punk as fuck to love everyone.
The depth of our natural beings can drown any shallow story.
Some lesbians don’t need to use dildos.
Its so far out the way out is in.
White is the darkest color.
Every one normal is insane.
Everything works out perfectly.
Testicles are beautiful.
Compassion is key.
Emotional attachment is murder.
There is no road less traveled.
Every out is the easiest.
Everything you look down on you will fall into.
Everything you fear will be the reason for your death.
Poem For The Deceased
For Lindsey Cushing
I just found out you died.
You died three years ago.
I found out tonight.
You know how you get the feeling to look up an old lost love?
I typed your name and your obituary came in black and white.
I turned ghostly.
I met you at a football game tailgate or maybe outside my apartment.
My memory is blurry. I think you heard about the book I wrote
the Secret Service fingerprinted me about and were interested in why they did that.
I probably gave you a copy. I can’t remember
if you spent the night with me that night or not.
Early on at some point I recall we met up at the cafeteria for dinner.
I told you I was a vegetarian.
You told me you used to be one but now you loved eating meat.
Usually I thought I was morally superior to people who ate meat
but not you, when you said it I thought it sounded righteous, cool, and sexy.
You were so special and beautiful to me.
Every night we would get hammered drunk and fuck shit up
then silently stroll back to my place in the crystal cool streetlamp city moonlight
like perfected stars hibernating warm in the hearts of grizzly bears.
On those quiet walks back I felt the world unreal
twisting inside out, slipping off magical,
and soaring speechless out of my mouth
like a song only your love could sing.
When we would make it back I would play Elliott Smith’s album
From A Basement On The Hill that had recently come out,
lay you down on my mattress on the floor, kiss your bright bouncy face,
and hold you as tightly as I could.
You told me I was too rough when I kissed
and taught me how to kiss softly.
Your lips will always be a very special thing to me.
There was one night we went to your friend’s party where I felt so strange and out of place
but you kissed me in front of everyone and my thoughts stopped the chase.
There was that time we spent the whole night dancing to Neil Young After The Gold Rush
and I finally understood what he was talking about in When You Dance I Can Really Love.
There was the time where we pretended to be staying at some fancy hotel in order to get free drinks.
We got so wasted on double shot Bloody Mary’s
all I can remember is using our bodies to walk back home together, holding hands.
I’ll never forget when my roommate came home from a night of hard drinking,
smashed his head on the coffee table, and fell asleep under it.
You got up, snuggled with him, gave him a blanket, and put him on the couch.
There was the other night where we pulled a fire alarm at Kapstone at 3 in the morning
and laughed as everyone came out pissed off.
You told one of the RA’s you had to take your birth control precisely at 315
and if you didn’t you would get pregnant.
He let us go back into the empty building and maybe we stole drugs
or maybe moonshine from some poor fucker, I can’t really remember too well.
I do remember how beautiful you looked in a tight black dress when I picked you up
and took you to court for some drinking ticket.
On the way back you were on the phone with maybe your dad or brother
and you told him about this cool dude you met who was me.
You gave me some look and it sent me.
I needed that look as my insides smiled new blossom flower mountains.
I think we might have talked about going on a trip one weekend.
I don’t know but I remember hoping it would happen so I could spend more time with you.
We didn’t talk much during the day but at night we had our way with the world.
I was such an idiot then.
I didn’t understand what was happening but I didn’t need to because I loved it so much.
You were the coolest, sweetest most beautiful girl I ever met that wanted to be around me and kiss me.
I really adored you.
You had a fresh way of being and moving. .
You were always positive and flowing
even while talking about how you got raped when you lost your virginity.
“Its all good, I just wish he wouldn’t have broken the bed that way.”
I think you might have said something to that effect.
God, I loved you
but I was afraid to have sex with you
because I hadn’t had much sex and didn’t know what to do.
You would taunt me and say, “Are you a faggot like that character in your book?” I would laugh.
“Do you just want me to fuck you in the ass, you faggot?”
I remember laying in bed with you and you said
“I know how everyone else gets freaked out by the wild and crazy things you say
but there is nothing you could ever say that would freak me out.”
I looked into your eyes and said, “Lindsey, I am in love with you.”
You looked out of the bed.
You were freaked out.
The next to last night we ever hung out I told you I was ready to fuck you.
You said ok but you wanted to get trimmed down there so how about we wait for tomorrow.
I said wonderful and got up to get you water from the bathroom sink.
That was your favorite water in the apartment.
I came back and we fell asleep, dreaming separate dreams in each other’s arms.
The next night we were hooking up
while my roommate was on the couch in our one room we shared.
I stuck my dick in you, pumped a couple of times, and came inside you.
It was probably horrible for you.
Once again I was an idiot and didn’t know what I was doing.
I either took you back to your dorm or walked you to your car but whatever
it was I could tell you were frantic but hoped it wasn’t a big deal though deep down
I felt like it would be the last time we would ever talk.
You stopped answering and returning my phone calls.
I had no clue what I did. Maybe it was because my roommate was in the room
I thought or maybe because I suck at sex.
Either way I was so sad.
I haunted the campus and the city like a virgin ghost out of time crying out your name
“Lindsey, Lindsey!” everywhere I went.
My friends would laugh.
I was being funny but at the same time I was so sad.
It felt kind of good being that sad as the leaves fell from the trees.
I met my roommate at a bar and told him if I could cry I would be so happy.
I told one of our mutual friends to find out what I did.
You told her in passing I will tell you later but I never found out if you did.
I started sleeping all day and doing my best to go into my dreams to find you.
I remember one day around 4 pm I finally found you in a dream.
I don’t remember exactly what occurred but I woke up feeling healing.
We passed each other both in groups on a stairwell and maybe you said
“hey,” to me, I can’t remember but it was obvious I needed to surrender you away.
A year later I heard you had cancer.
I am pretty sure I found your number through 411 directory.
I called your parent’s house.
I think your dad answered and put you on the phone.
You were probably freaked out but maybe a little happy I called.
I asked you if you were ok.
I think you said you were going to be fine.
The conversation was forcibly short on your part.
On Feb 27th 2009 you passed.
It is October 12, 2012 and I am tired, confused, and sad.
I love you Lindsey.