You see I wanted to write something so deep
the world would drown in it.
Except not really
Some the future needs to hear and see this
So they freeze my words in time and to be brought back as the
revived rebirth of the of lyrical the rhyme cryogenic type shit.
Some building blocks for being
double helix dioxie-ribo nucleic acid type hype.
It would be deep as the ocean
then they’d find themselves being birthed
out of the amniotic fluid that flows
from my brain to my womb to my pen
It would be so prolific they’d want to crawl back in just to be born again
I took my pen in my hand and felt my blood circulate the mental command from my neurological land
To the fingers that span my writing implement
I was focused
Toting a number two. Yellow plastic covered, silver plated with an eraser
with a lead filled tip
and I was ready to rip
until the clip was empty.
The things I’d write would be the seeds to fertilize the minds of those who don’t read the lines written in the Times
If it sparks the mind of just one who hears it
and it’s truth creates a stink
in this perfect rosy world that we have been
taught that in we exist
Then it was worth it
I’m just trying to cure those coughing up the bullshit with my lyrical Robotussin DM
ranted words and proverbs of prophets that’ll never get heard
on a stage that that’s afraid to part down the middle for a feminine riddle
because the microphone is just another phallic symbol.
That I have to jack to be nimble jack to be quick.
The lessons some skip
like a scratched Cd
all I can do is use words that rhyme to sign my names in the heavens declaring my creative independence.
While the movement of daily life is choreographed
by the music in our heads
it’s our hearts beating
and our lungs breathing
It’s the irritation and frustration
The confusion and elation
in our brains
It’s the heartache
It’s a bitter pill to swallow
but if you still think this isn’t prison then
you’re mistaking form for content.