These are the skin and bone of my mind
These are the heart and soul of my core
I don't just write poetry to throw around some flowery anecdotes
I'm like a lyricist with the fire of a flamethrower
A spirit floating on the ocean floor
Dormant until the volcano roars
But I don't just write words
I don't just play for poetry
I live it
I love it
I breathe it
I don't beat to it, I'm not a beat poet
I don't jam to it, I'm not a singer
I speak it, I read it, I commit to it
Haven't found my muse yet.
I faltered when I thought I did
Spit blind lines of love like cocaine through a straw type shit
And I bled love like a wrist cutter
Wrote it on my knees and my elbows,
- why did I lose love?
- what did I do to deserve pain?
- why won't anyone love me?
Started doping up on rhymes
To define my soul
My black lies
My white ties
Of something that could've been but wouldn't become
Accepting myself as a poet with a feisty tongue
Lapping at golden letters
Shot from an unmanned gun
Finding hygiene in verses with my curses
Hexes on that motherfucker
like lipstick on my plump lips
Plugged to the wire of a mic
Under bright spotlights
I don't spit fire.
I put it out.
Water.
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