i confess
all my stress
is derived from my own mess,
less from the life that provides
right in excess.
blessings
fall left and right,
still i fight them
storin
those lessons
impressed
by the sight
and its like
i could right them
wrongs when I'm writin
songs
rather, poems,
knowin
the fallen
would call em the
letters of the strong
and they threadin into one
very long
memoir
of the soul and
time tends to show better
slow, but the flow
tends to roll
off the tongue,
like
smoke
like
emotions
without
self control:
declarations
of love
prematurely
exposed
and disposed
with no closure.
nations could know her
strength and composure...
posed with the eyes closed;
...most wouldn't buy her
they'd prob'ly try her;
might try to tie her
up, maybe down, maybe find
they desire
yup, they'll admire
yup, they'll aspire to
change
how she feels,
how she lives,
how she'd die
or
tame
how she flies or
name
what she likes
but they'll find
that their lives
and her mind
can't conspire
shame always finds her
blame plays its game
when the girl that remains
kinda prays for the fire;
Same day she'd
change
and decide to transpire
learn from the way
and with pride,
settle higher
yup, she's a fighter
but
she's a liar
lighting her path
with the wrath of a tiger
all thats a front.
she's a wounded outsider
lost counting losses that cross
every side. assumed
to be kinder,
rumored she's kinda
loose with her noose
and her youth makes her wilder
Whoo! they say can her
outfits get tighter?
She's such a bitch
She's a ho
(She's a "writer")
Truth
could be blurred.
A proof could be heard,
and truthfully verbal
confusion is ruthless.
Wordless?
Observe this:
You could be
visually
judging me
frequently,
I have been literally
raped with indecency.
So, it's a burden to
need to bear openly
such private things
to "anonymous"
people. See
recently I'm on some
"Honesty Equal" shit,
Treat everyone like they're
awesome and peoples. It
gets kind of messy when
I spit some deeper shit,
gets used against me and
now I'm a
cheaper
chick
Some kind of keeper of
secrets I seem to be
When I so freely
release my immunities.
Any good artist at
reaping will know that the weakest
are those
who bare everything needlessly.
Here is the deepest
of all my confessions:
these internal schemes are
my deepest obsessions.
The lessons I've learned
from the lashings
I've turned into
blessings with simply a
twist of my words
let me leisurely--
blissfully--
read through my life
like I've earned every
seed, every ounce of my pride --
Worse is that
this is the best I can seem to be.
Be it that I'm really young,
it competes with the
need to believe in the
teachings of history,
how it repeats
in the schemes
of my destiny.
(This is just ramblings
I penned after cannibus
found its way down my
attention and damn it's the
best thing I've written since
that bitch demanded this
animalistic
amazement to banishment!)
