I write, because others won’t.
When I pick up the pen
to get it goin, others don’t
know how to react, but to thin gin
because they, real cool.
They, skipped school.
If I switch up my approach,
others are still behind with a poetry coach.
So don’t choke on the smoke that my pen,
and my mind, have written.
Speaking of smoke,
I believe it’s time to toke.
Blazin the lyrical leaves,
picked from the poet trees
grown on intellectual properties
made to enlighten those- who are ignorant.
Truth and reality are a constant,
but only to the blind, who will be irrelevant.
Basically breaking the bones,
terrorizing these clones,
verbally kicking down their homes
to make sure they know
that THIS…is poetry.
I would stop but the
words are constantly flowing, see
I had to add another line
givin an endless supply of divine
You get my mission?
Bust a lyrical nut to their eyes
that way I can cure the blind
and we can welcome them to our high
society. Don’t know what it is? Shame on you.
People pretending to be poets should disgust you.
I’ll hot wire their skulls to accept the truth,
this here, is not for the youth.
If I had my way, you’d not exist.
Prosecuted, then taking the death sentence,
wait, did I say sentence? Nah fuck that
I’ll turn this into a death paragraph!
No longer following restrictions,
poetry is ever-livin.
You can feel it when I’m spittin
and kickin somethin written
from a last minute decision.
Watchin, people not have a clue
because I…well I write poetry, and what the fuck do you do?