This is a place for me to post my poetry. I really and sincerely appreciate any feedback and constructive criticism. Poetry is a new venture for me, so I can only hope to get better.
Orange Title's denote poems which won the contest for the week they were entered.
Am I a man?
Or a myth?
A woman?
Or maybe a child, fallen from a cliff?
My constant views of desperate shadows,
my bile bubbling dark green through my lips.
I have no recourse from my minds wretched gallows,
by sickening sorrow and pills, my soul will slip.
Thoughts as the blaring causes my eyes to open,
hit the clock,
lost some rocks,
Some mash for breakfast
that my mom put on toast,
the bus is here, I suppose I'll leave.
Blur till lunchtime, I think I'm finally awake,
forced into boredom, depression, and awkward life, supposedly for futures sake.
Perhaps if they knew my bag could be the genesis of future Columbine,
they'd think to slow their role,
right now I'd fancy a daydream about Adventure Time,
perhaps I'll show them tomorrow.
Heavens doctor I can't imagine what I'd do,
if my car ran on soup.
I'd probably fill it with chicken noodle,
or perhaps some cream of onion to mix with my split-pea coupe.
Veal is made by torturing a baby cow.
Isn't that terrible?
Or have you even considered,
if our heart was switched with our liver?
The rib cage would still provide a shield,
but if it were to yield,
well that thought just makes me quiver.
Not that I allow my thoughts to control me my dear doctor,
for you see,
While my neighbors may join me for dinner, they always leave.
Promptly at eight.
What's in a name,
what's in a game,
let's be insane,
if we can't be the same.
Perhaps I like the way you burn me on my face with cigarettes,
when I'm sleeping, dreaming, of my tongue touching your spinnerets,
when I wake I'll be erect, low tech, and about to wretch,
from the pain, zeal, and foolishness,
of lying next to you.
Touchdown.
Lift off.
Touchdown.
Lift off.
Downtown.
Get off.
Four fifty-nine a.m.
A weekend.
I enter the gas station.
Swish. Swoosh.
That's the sound of the doors.
Where the **** did my friends go?
There's no one behind the counter.
I'm the last man on earth.
All the kings horses,
trampled on the free.
Not even the youngest children,
could speak of peace to me.
The next morning.
I wake up, swallowed up by a bean bag chair.
I'm on my floor. The chair isn't supposed to be here.
Who's that in my bed?
Never mind. I don't even care.
I rise, but it's hard to say I've risen.
Walk down the hall.
My mouth can no longer produce saliva.
All the kings horses,
trampled on me,
not even the voice of youngest children,
could bring peace unto the free.
Another day, another dawn.
jewel of the heart, sing your song.
The sun is shining, the wind is sweet.
The crops are growing. Vibrant! Spite on the heat.
We've weathered all the gaels,
through all our trials, we did not fail.
So dance without sorrow, chew on some leaves,
prepare yourself, for abundant reprieve!
Soon I hear! The ballot will come.
It came and went, so little time spent,
but our comrade, our comrade! Fruition from intent.
More land for our farms, more bread for our plate,
I'm going to get a new bicycle, I can't hardly wait.
Everything will be great, of this my doubt is quite faint.
Plus even if it wasn't, nobody likes those with complaint.
If I just keep wearing my smile, and tending my business with a hush,
Most assuredly soon, my world will be lush.
I do not know, when a ballot will come.
It's hard to grow crops, with nothing in the sky,
not even the comrade, can make the heavens cry.
Surely he could do something. But alas! No word.
Sometimes I wonder, if any prayers are heard.
Less and less, the energy I have each day.
My feet are weary, no bicycle is on its way.
I try to keep the smile up, but I fear soon the frown will start to show,
I've lost faith in the comrade, but it would be unwise to let the neighbors know.
I'm glad that soon, a ballot will come...
Hush! They'll hear us. Do not let the know that of which we speak.
Flee, run with your sister! They will be hear this week.
It's too late for that, they already know. How foolish of me.
The price we paid, to never be free.
The ballot. The ballot.
What a worthless hunk of meat.
I should have known the devil,
always procures a victory, even in defeat.
Lollipops! Lollipops!
Gum drops and sugar plums!
Krispy Krispy's, and crackly crackly's,
razor blades and bubblegum!
Oh boy, oh boy, I just can't wait,
to fill my heart with joyful sprit.
The laughter of children, filling their palms with treats,
I just can't wait to hear it.
Rambunctious.
It's a word within a word as I ram into buns.
With a certain rambunctious giddiness to my movements.
Anna-Lee.
She's a girl within a girl as I wish she were really two girls.
Exactly why I plan to split her in two. Maybe thrice.
A sneer for a smile.
My lips curl within a curl of a some short hairs that I secretly wish weren't there.
I'll be glad I did this later though.
Turducken.
It's literally a bird within a bird within a bird.
And who doesn't like a thing inside of another thing inside of another thing. Especially when moisture is involved.
A poem about the miraculous abilities for abstract thought that one has when under the influence of a certain illegal substance that can also be made into butter; not necessarily the type of butter you want to spread on bread but a good butter nonetheless, a good butter indeed.
****ing hate everyone,
every ****ing one.
You're *****es and snitches,
all over digits.
I'm religious and yet I get it.
Punch your ticket to the cliqueing,
I hear you like a dicking.
You're a ****ing mod dick taker,
it's outrageous.
I ****ing figured you were. This is why I told you to stop posting.
******. ******. ******.
That's the "n" word but it's censored.
Burning grease a ****ing blister.
My job sucks but you still call me mister.
Hey mister, that's ****ing right *****.
Suck my **** some more and I'll probably let you post.
This isn't high school.
This isn't real life.
Slice and dice.
It doesn't matter
tomato splatter.
This is just a website.
Just a ****ing website.
Where we can all put on our cool shades if we want.
But it's still just a sandbox.
I decided to write a rap, since everyone else has been doing it.
*ahem*
script flippin, syrup sippin,
cannibal of canteloupes yall *****s hatin I'm just chillin,
cause my skillin is skittles and my trillin is typcal,
**** your influences I'm straight New Orleans, ****in brought up on Mystikal,
DANGER!
***** mutha ****ing watch yourself,
I'll stick yah, dick yah, trip yah, blistah, straight make you drip yuh,
stick a finger up your ass while I'm polishin that clit yuh!
tounge moving on you fast, babblin, I'm off my rocker.
Call me D-R Mario I'll be your plumbing doctor.
Wet.
All around.
***** you my man made island,
and I got you a peninsula,
you know I'm ****ing stylin, whildin,
marijuana flyin,
procrastinator flow I aint even ****ing tryin.
ummmm.
I'll drop some free throws. ***** I can't dunk.
I can dance though cmon and watch me get crunk.
I do a two step. A lil cat daddy.
Roll with me and only smoke the best fatties.
ugh.
This is ugly boy swag, smugly putting toe tags on all you rappers whack ass,
Kinda crass,
straight bad ass,
do I most def got the mos swag?
Yes.
Suck it Khaled I'm the best.
I digress.
Best respect.
The young kid from the south who cashin all the checks.....
Ooops not really.
I'm broke yeah really.
Spent it all on green cause I like that feeling,
Diesel to the head makin me straight giddy,
Ak-47 killing me while healin,
If I had all the money in the world
my vegetable budget be bout half a billion.
Yeah.
Rhymes straight killin,
so I hope yo ears is kevlar,
John Lee Malvo in the booth,
youngest killer you ever hear of.
So whats the word bruh?
You havn't heard bruh?
Well you best speak a four letter word cause thems the best words i ever heard bruh.
K to the U-S-H
P-U-R-P
N to the O-L-A
S-W-A-G
And yeah,
from the onlsaught no reprieve,
***** you know you best believe,
That when you see me up in da street,
your ***** will most definately,
be screamin "Who Dat!"........
cause my swag's Drew Brees!
Blam.
(note: Sounds better when spoken with proper/improper pronounciation and my accent etc. Also I reserve the right to switch that out for a real poem. Just figured I'd offer my own take on some rap).
Monrovia.
A capital named after a capitalist pig-dog.
Imperialist deal breakers.
The serenity of the moments in such terrible heat often go unnoticed.
Infinity existence.
Slightly reminiscent.
Of a simpler time.
But why are we living so simply
in a town named after such greatness.
A statement of rapists.
We welcome them with open arms, and yet they'd rather rape us.
And after you get your nut, why do you still hate us?
The world is at peace and my mind is near ease,
but the phlegm is crawling up my throat in chunky hunks of cantankerous frieze.
Invisible fists of stone punch their way out of my body, through my chest,
ripping through the skin and wrapping silently around my neck.
How can I breathe?
When I've been sucked down beneath lengthy piles of insidious ichor.
Left to drown,
amongst a town of nobodies whose love simply made me sicker.
Rock and roll night life,
sucker for the limelight,
tried to be a rap star,
festered as a trap star,
cop cars, powdered bars,
the urban truth,
Ruth; a simulacrum.
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We don't have much in common,
but I guess you should let me take a ride tonight.
grab the throttle, go up to max,
I always liked my girls a little bit older.
The moments over, I'm regretful,
I can tell you are to.
What else can one say, about belts and sunglasses,
I can read the DNA on your face.
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Crush a little bit in my saliva,
Oh lady Godiva!, en passant into your fire.
Till I retire, a squire,
as looney as I'm looking,
until I finish cooking,
then I don't care if your phony,
it's straight knees and macaroni,
hot dog into bologna,
en passant.
Again.
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All of my poems, are about sex and drugs,
death and despair, knives and slugs.
My rhyme schemes are choppy,
my world filled with poppy,
I walk daily in a daze,
a slave and a knave,
both satisfy me deeply.
My favorite level on Super Mario 64 is hazy maze cave.
I don't write poetry. I guess it's more like ****.
But apparently my **** smells like roses.
Let me take a dump on your clit.
Then I'll piss on your face.
So much has changed, my piss is electric kool-aid.
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Welcome to the shore
of the life of rotten cores,
where all that is in store,
is a Harrah driven world.
Your favorite girl, she is a whore,
ghetto noir on every door.
Promethazine, codeine, and beans
aren't usually mixed but that's the scene,
I long to lay my seed,
in a girl named Orleans.
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I told her I didn't like her,
so why the hell am I so jealous.
I only slept with her that one time,
so drunk I can't say I even felt it.
And now, she gets beaten.
And I have to look her in the face at least three times a week.
For at least six hours at a time.
She gets to tell me what to do.
Do dishes. Take out the trash. Go help wing station. Filter the friers.
Give me a hug. Let me cry on your shoulder. Roll one up and bring it to me.
And yet she never leaves.
I'm seething. She's skiing.
Blaze until I'm ignorant. Barely being.
The saddest part about it all,
is while I'll always hear the tears patter.
One day I'll clock out one last time,
and wash my hands completely of the matter.
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Gelatinous fantasticness,
I'm cooking pasta,
fractureless.
Half-wits off the genius flip,
we are smarter than your script,
**** direction, we're on our own.
Our carnal sins,
our sticky lives,
detract from the mind,
of a honey hive.
Will he arrive?
I do not know.
But if he truly knows me,
then he'll let me go.
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I am.
The box that hawk of "the klutz's", my girlfriends favorite band, gave to his mother for christmas.
Hat box.
Open it, I dare you.
I implore you to reconsider.
Read some literature, eat some liver,
sure, there's a cure,
but in truth it is obscure.
Scribblings in your notebook.
Welcome to the age of maximum output.
Seldom any input.
At least we still have swim suits.
But I'll kick it in a zoot suit.
Root chewing.
Chicken foot drying.
Cyaniding.
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They all look okay, work-safe wise, though 1 and 3 are fairly borderline. The lindsey lohan line in the first, and most of the third. That said, I'd say it's within bounds.
I love the last stanza of the second. Lots of callbacks, and keeping the rhyme scheme is awesome. How long'd that take you?
And whereabouts in Nola are you? East bank? West bank?
For the last stanza, while I know you're trying to call back to the 'Dr.' bit of Dr. Mario, I feel as if that third line is a bit too long. It doesn't quite flow right. Perhaps "We're playing doctor and plumber every time she call me" instead.
Each of these took me somewhere between 5-15 minutes. I was trying not to spend a lot of time crafting penned out rhymes because that seemed against the spirit of a cypher, even on a message board (though I don't think the people who were posting with me had the same strategy :embarrass:). Usually I just would try and freestyle out a little bit and type it up, but instead of having to go line after line without messing up I could pause of a minute or so, or scratch something out. Usually I'd flow out about 4 easy lines, and then I might think for a few seconds trying to deliver something worthwhile to keep the momentum going. And example of this is in the second one, the middle stanza came out pretty easy, just some basic flow about sellin drugs and living in rural southern american and what not, but the last one I paused a couple times to come up with good stuff. The end part with the jungle book, the matrix, and ipods just came to me in a flash of inspiration though.
Also I'm currently in college in Statesboro, Georgia, but I'm lived on both the East Bank and West Bank, though the majority of the time was about 15 minutes outside of the city in Hahnville. A lot of my relatives live on the West Bank, or in more southern Houma, Louisiana.
And yeah, I really wanted to throw that Dr. Mario thing in there though. I used it in my PRC freestyle a couple weeks ago, and I liked it better then but was trying to use it with a different set up. Dr. Mario as an obgyn makes me giggle everytime. That actually came to me playing some SSB: Melee a couple weeks ago, when I picked Dr. Mario (I love screaming "Take your medicine!" while standing on the other side of the level from the action and throwing pills everywhere basically trolling the other players), and my friend remarks "what kind of doctor is Dr. Mario anyway". Without hesitation I was just like "plumbing doctor", and then it dawned on me what else that could mean xp
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I told her I didn't like her,
so why the hell am I so jealous.
I only slept with her that one time,
so drunk I can't say I even felt it.
And now, she gets beaten.
And I have to look her in the face at least three times a week.
For at least six hours at a time.
She gets to tell me what to do.
Do dishes. Take out the trash. Go help wing station. Filter the friers.
Give me a hug. Let me cry on your shoulder. Roll one up and bring it to me.
And yet she never leaves.
I'm seething. She's skiing.
Blaze until I'm ignorant. Barely being.
The saddest part about it all,
is while I'll always hear the tears patter.
One day I'll clock out one last time,
and wash my hands completely of the matter.
I thought it would be worth noting that last week the last stanza of this poem finally came to fruition.
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I like my parochial coffee to be black as white,
fill it with cream of the crop until it rains at night.
Stay out of sight or catch the blight,
speak up and be told to sit with Satan;
You have no rights just our right.
If you'd rather sip tea well that's unfortunate.
That's the drink of strangers, drink it if you want a visit
from the midnight rangers.
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Tell your children stories of slavery,
midgets laughed at and controlled.
Forced to set springs and tinker endlessly,
their obese boss is jolly, or so were told.
Train your little eichmanns!
Materialism tis the season.
As long as the machine turns,
and pockets are filled;
We can stop the thoughts of treason.
Note: This is a poem about Santa and his elves.
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Tell your children stories of slavery,
midgets laughed at and controlled.
Forced to set springs and tinker endlessly,
their obese boss is jolly, or so were told.
Train your little eichmanns!
Materialism tis the season.
As long as the machine turns,
and pockets are filled;
We can stop the thoughts of treason.
Note: This is a poem about Santa and his elves.
I very much enjoyed this poem. The last line is simple and powerful, and the theme is something I identify with strongly.
I very much enjoyed this poem. The last line is simple and powerful, and the theme is something I identify with strongly.
Thanks I'm glad you liked it :). More recently I've been trying to go back to my poetic roots persay, and I've been trying to write some semi-dark, nihilistic type stuff. I like to try and make my poems shorter but powerful, and off I try to stick with my own creative rhyme schemes and formatting as usual.
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How many lost boys are violent?
Doves inside of lions.
Ivory nails from a cross, through their supple eyelids.
Chainlink fences. Surreal suspense,
urban facists false countenance.
The eyes, God they pierce me!
My baby, my lady,
what did she last see?
If home is where the heart is,
then cancer is all my heart can ever be.
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I play music in my shower. This is a verse I spit on Lupe Fiasco's "Words I never said"
Words you need to hear
I also think the war on Terror is a bunch of bull-****,
but Obama aint a terrorist stop tryna raise your pulpit,
maybe you should have paid just a lil more attention to your schoolin,
your opinionated pr campaign is lookin Supah Stan Marsh fooooolissssshhhhhhh,
ugh,
I guess props for being politically minded,
but even with them stunna shades I think you're ****ing blinded,
by some inner demons bruh, you need to be reminded,
you living in a mansion while we living out in violence,
stylin and high lifing, turning groupies outta wives an,
complaining for the middle class when you private jet flyin,
close your jaw since you so fond of coverups,
you need some help? Fine, have a shut the **** up uppercut,
"Voice of the generation"?, man you blabberin bout "such and such",
head scratchin blurbs, obstructed words, all we think is what the ****,
So listen up, open up, man listen to me good,
complainin instead of actin never got no one out the hood.
*chorus*
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Orange Title's denote poems which won the contest for the week they were entered.
Rock and roll night life,
sucker for the limelight,
tried to be a rap star,
festered as a trap star,
cop cars, powdered bars,
the urban truth,
Ruth; a simulacrum.
We don't have much in common,
but I guess you should let me take a ride tonight.
grab the throttle, go up to max,
I always liked my girls a little bit older.
The moments over, I'm regretful,
I can tell you are to.
What else can one say, about belts and sunglasses,
I can read the DNA on your face.
The truth hurts,
no dessert,
not a punishment,
lack of funding.
Hard to think,
wretched stink,
the pain is gripping,
lack of ****ing.
Crazed mongrel,
paper fondle,
I love drugs,
lack of fun.
Lights are dimming,
thoughts are thinning,
ull o ury,
lack of F.
Scribble-scrabble,
psycho babble,
sobriety, notoriety,
piety, society.
The words give me gumption,
the thoughts give me praise,
I feel electric black,
because my days are haze.
People want to find me,
sublime me,
but first you have to find me,
untie me.
I think I'm a toaster oven.
Old school is my ride,
shimmy-shake my tie-dye,
I roll through streets,
sustain a release,
drip drip, creep creep.
Beep beep. Horn on the jeep.
Door opens. Window closes.
What's good with a g?
Running noses.
Shady dealings.
No misgivings.
From their end.
I eat bars, no soap.
I drive cars, sticks though.
I'm real hung, no rope.
Unsung, no hope.
Crush a little bit in my saliva,
Oh lady Godiva!, en passant into your fire.
Till I retire, a squire,
as looney as I'm looking,
until I finish cooking,
then I don't care if your phony,
it's straight knees and macaroni,
hot dog into bologna,
en passant.
Again.
All of my poems, are about sex and drugs,
death and despair, knives and slugs.
My rhyme schemes are choppy,
my world filled with poppy,
I walk daily in a daze,
a slave and a knave,
both satisfy me deeply.
My favorite level on Super Mario 64 is hazy maze cave.
I don't write poetry. I guess it's more like ****.
But apparently my **** smells like roses.
Let me take a dump on your clit.
Then I'll piss on your face.
So much has changed, my piss is electric kool-aid.
Welcome to the shore
of the life of rotten cores,
where all that is in store,
is a Harrah driven world.
Your favorite girl, she is a whore,
ghetto noir on every door.
Promethazine, codeine, and beans
aren't usually mixed but that's the scene,
I long to lay my seed,
in a girl named Orleans.
I told her I didn't like her,
so why the hell am I so jealous.
I only slept with her that one time,
so drunk I can't say I even felt it.
And now, she gets beaten.
And I have to look her in the face at least three times a week.
For at least six hours at a time.
She gets to tell me what to do.
Do dishes. Take out the trash. Go help wing station. Filter the friers.
Give me a hug. Let me cry on your shoulder. Roll one up and bring it to me.
And yet she never leaves.
I'm seething. She's skiing.
Blaze until I'm ignorant. Barely being.
The saddest part about it all,
is while I'll always hear the tears patter.
One day I'll clock out one last time,
and wash my hands completely of the matter.
Swish swish.
Shh it's a mystery.
New history.
Hush.
Delicious.
A single item.
It's my smorgasbord.
Lots of savory saucey.
Look up the definition of tossy.
2005 Explorer.........ford.
Once upon a time,
I ate a cake.
Licked the blood,
right off the plate.
It's so tasty when it's fresh,
I said with a smile.
I'd do it again.
If I could turn back the dial.
Her name was Jamaica.
Gelatinous fantasticness,
I'm cooking pasta,
fractureless.
Half-wits off the genius flip,
we are smarter than your script,
**** direction, we're on our own.
Our carnal sins,
our sticky lives,
detract from the mind,
of a honey hive.
Will he arrive?
I do not know.
But if he truly knows me,
then he'll let me go.
I am.
The box that hawk of "the klutz's", my girlfriends favorite band, gave to his mother for christmas.
Hat box.
Open it, I dare you.
I implore you to reconsider.
Read some literature, eat some liver,
sure, there's a cure,
but in truth it is obscure.
Scribblings in your notebook.
Welcome to the age of maximum output.
Seldom any input.
At least we still have swim suits.
But I'll kick it in a zoot suit.
Root chewing.
Chicken foot drying.
Cyaniding.
I love the last stanza of the second. Lots of callbacks, and keeping the rhyme scheme is awesome. How long'd that take you?
And whereabouts in Nola are you? East bank? West bank?
For the last stanza, while I know you're trying to call back to the 'Dr.' bit of Dr. Mario, I feel as if that third line is a bit too long. It doesn't quite flow right. Perhaps "We're playing doctor and plumber every time she call me" instead.
My helpdesk should you need me.
Also I'm currently in college in Statesboro, Georgia, but I'm lived on both the East Bank and West Bank, though the majority of the time was about 15 minutes outside of the city in Hahnville. A lot of my relatives live on the West Bank, or in more southern Houma, Louisiana.
And yeah, I really wanted to throw that Dr. Mario thing in there though. I used it in my PRC freestyle a couple weeks ago, and I liked it better then but was trying to use it with a different set up. Dr. Mario as an obgyn makes me giggle everytime. That actually came to me playing some SSB: Melee a couple weeks ago, when I picked Dr. Mario (I love screaming "Take your medicine!" while standing on the other side of the level from the action and throwing pills everywhere basically trolling the other players), and my friend remarks "what kind of doctor is Dr. Mario anyway". Without hesitation I was just like "plumbing doctor", and then it dawned on me what else that could mean xp
A timeless moment,
lost inside the petrification our lips.
Were I dying of thirst,
your essence is the only thing I'd want to sip.
Crack!
Things apparently got so hard as to be brittle.
Were you dying of thirst,
I wouldn't give you a drop of spittle.
I thought it would be worth noting that last week the last stanza of this poem finally came to fruition.
I like my parochial coffee to be black as white,
fill it with cream of the crop until it rains at night.
Stay out of sight or catch the blight,
speak up and be told to sit with Satan;
You have no rights just our right.
If you'd rather sip tea well that's unfortunate.
That's the drink of strangers, drink it if you want a visit
from the midnight rangers.
Tell your children stories of slavery,
midgets laughed at and controlled.
Forced to set springs and tinker endlessly,
their obese boss is jolly, or so were told.
Train your little eichmanns!
Materialism tis the season.
As long as the machine turns,
and pockets are filled;
We can stop the thoughts of treason.
Note: This is a poem about Santa and his elves.
I very much enjoyed this poem. The last line is simple and powerful, and the theme is something I identify with strongly.
Thanks I'm glad you liked it :). More recently I've been trying to go back to my poetic roots persay, and I've been trying to write some semi-dark, nihilistic type stuff. I like to try and make my poems shorter but powerful, and off I try to stick with my own creative rhyme schemes and formatting as usual.
How many lost boys are violent?
Doves inside of lions.
Ivory nails from a cross, through their supple eyelids.
Chainlink fences. Surreal suspense,
urban facists false countenance.
The eyes, God they pierce me!
My baby, my lady,
what did she last see?
If home is where the heart is,
then cancer is all my heart can ever be.
Words you need to hear
I also think the war on Terror is a bunch of bull-****,
but Obama aint a terrorist stop tryna raise your pulpit,
maybe you should have paid just a lil more attention to your schoolin,
your opinionated pr campaign is lookin Supah Stan Marsh fooooolissssshhhhhhh,
ugh,
I guess props for being politically minded,
but even with them stunna shades I think you're ****ing blinded,
by some inner demons bruh, you need to be reminded,
you living in a mansion while we living out in violence,
stylin and high lifing, turning groupies outta wives an,
complaining for the middle class when you private jet flyin,
close your jaw since you so fond of coverups,
you need some help? Fine, have a shut the **** up uppercut,
"Voice of the generation"?, man you blabberin bout "such and such",
head scratchin blurbs, obstructed words, all we think is what the ****,
So listen up, open up, man listen to me good,
complainin instead of actin never got no one out the hood.
*chorus*
Have you thought about producing it? I know you were making Swag radio but I wasn't sure if you are going to put **** on CD's.
Keep up the sick flow
LOL