I met a lil broad one day in the slums
She had this tendency to **** souls through her gums
She rolled with some ****** who were involved with some guns
Some ****** who made dead bodies outta sons
With a cynical sickle, she and them helped the Reaper with some
Unwanted infants who lived a full life on the run
Maybe if none of them had begun
Maybe if it was just Adam Eve and their son
Maybe then ****** wouldn't run in our blood.
And maybe the shawdy could change what she's done
Only if her demons could exit the sum
And then some, exit her life,
leave her soul alone with the one, in the know of the son in trinity with the father and summin, so precious its name
holy as three in one.
So about the broad and her son, thats right one of em ****** was dumb
He pumped a kid in the *****, stole her vehicular whip, left her stuck in some **** , now she gotta sell half spliff, lil miss drug dealer and ****
She should've pulled a gun on a rubix, get a few rubies, keep the kid outta movies, the lights camera and shooting, can turn a kid into a ruthless, gun slinging ringing from two hips, while emptying two clips, upside your prefix.
But no, she decided to roll with some hoodlums, making loose ends that are proofread by noose heads.
Moving into the sights of new feds .
Sleeping on cold beds
With no friends
In the cold ends.

I hear the wind has begun blowing through your sails.
I hear your ship has reached enough shores, and that it departed from just as many.
I hear your mast has grown heavy, and your tasks are not plenty.
I hear the waves that called you to sea have begun to recede.
I hear that your hands have applauded at a vast amount of occasions.
I hear you've been introduced to enough people.
I hear that i won't be able to introduce you to my children.
I hear that you will not be able to save their lives as you've saved mine.
I hear that your crew has reduced to a navigator, first mate and Captain.
I saw that you are happy. Happily heading home into after life.

Words hold …
Weight
Power
Dictatorship
Emotion
Words hold the strength to ride upon the fiercely thrashing breaths of life.
As such they reign over the in-credible aspects of life that your conscious can take credit for.
Creating laws that your soul abides to unconditionally.
Laws that paint your mind as a revolutionary that needs to be  imprisoned. Intrusive thoughts can be charged with breaking and entering as well as intrusion.
A person’s entirety can be measured in about three words
I am alive
And
I will die.
Examples to mention a few. People have said that words are daggers.
However they could be shields. Guns. Flowers. Fire ice. Literally painful. Figuratively peaceful. Words could be hell. Words could be heaven.
They could be the insurmountable link connecting you, inseparably, to the person that your very soul belongs to.
They could be the embers that fall gracefully upon the dry leaves nested, inseparably, on the bridge burnt.
In different ways, shapes and notes…words distort space and time.
Words working for the ministry of Anxiety can reduce a room to nothing more than a skin suit with a vague promise of a chrome shaded window.
Words under employment in The Department of National Anger, turn seconds into islands spread across planets where each second is taken for granted as your anger festers and flourishes where planted
It's never taken a second for revolution to conquer.
Words weaponized wisely would win wars.

By :: Kuro Tsubame

it was a little while ago
yet it's been an eternity for sure
my breath had run it's course
I always end up sitting with my back against the mental walls
my costume cunningly crafted from a curator habitually falls
through the inevitable tragedy that remains a part of me
fantastically prancing from my drought ridden skull holes.
i may not be the hurt man
because as a man, i need to understand that the world will not weep with me
regardless of how much i plead with thee for sympathy
all the world shall grant me is misery and illusory stories where I'm the villain and deserve mistreatment simply because i befriend my demons.
the alternative is being broken and defeated, left ****** without reason, while my soul is stolen from freedom.
so i cannot be hurt.
i will not be hurt.
i cannot be the hurt man.
my pain has no choice but to understand.

Baited breathes with my dreams on the steps where i long to chase your breathes
Soon she tells me, as soon as seconds pass i ask the old man with a clock if this is according to plan
That i can't feel your hand, that we can't stand on the sand, that we can't breathe by the plants, that we face this distance like ants
He grants a gesture with his clock then festers my mental. His time is not gentle
But she told me soon my love
So my eyes shall be blind and pry my mind from distractions of some kind and await this soon that shall arive
My love
Soon

And since my soul is so willing to sew rhythms in copious ocean-esc villainous feelings
I'll be wing ridden to save myself from being pillaged
, see my soul's risen into old wisdom given by members hidden in the pages of some wing ridden angels when my mind's with them.
It's that kind of season, where you can get lost in the dreaming and break free without reason from a precinct with demons that stay feeding on the lifeless breathing ingrates that try to keep up with living.
It's vivid, how their horns and tails fidget when you're about to cheat on the misses
And rob a church before Christmas
Got you acting up, chasing down a witness
The things our souls have to witness.
I wish the victimizer had a fit bit on his cruel wrist; so that i could blame **** on his focus
Other wise there's no sense
In hurting a woman who gave no offence
They willing to jump an electric fence and fence with their daggers and blades. Slice up her dress turn her into a slave.
Leaving trauma delayed relayed in her mind as fact that she cannot be saved.
I'm afraid.
Why make a choice that'll make more graves?
Why make a kid in a world that won't be the same
A world where the only change is a different type of blame.
With a different gun to aim
I'm just saying
It's a shame, for humans and their vains laced with historical pains and strains of purple hearts i mean haze and strife
Basically smoking a joint laced with a knife
Twice.
One for the groom and one for the bride.
Because the child they couldn’t hide died in the street dealing with one Jackel and one Hide.
To be honest i probably would have tried
To join my child if God pulled them to his side.
Thus, my soul and mind are placed in his hands where i confide.