As the story goes, Picasso was walking though the market one day when a woman spotted him. She stopped the artist, pulled out a piece of paper and said, “Mr. Picasso, I am a fan of your work. Please, could you do a little drawing for me?”

Picasso smiled and quickly drew a small, but beautiful piece of art on the paper. Then, he handed the paper back to her saying, “That will be one million dollars.”

“But Mr. Picasso,” the woman said. “It only took you thirty seconds to draw this little masterpiece.”

“My good woman,” Picasso said, “It took me thirty years to draw that masterpiece in thirty seconds.”

**** this civilized **** I am set, like an object. So don't object. My eyes on the prize like my future subjects. All these haters is suspect, I pay them no respect. That's how a King treats his subjects. I blow minds like lare jets-- then take marks and get set. It could be the bad or the ugly, l'm as good as it gets. I'm raising the bar like I'm working my pecs, working hard, baring arms like I'm funk master flex. I'm laughing so hard it's hurting my chest. instead of getting money I'm enjoying my wealth,  weight a couple rounds, then rise up in belts. My Dawgs underdogs, like we training vets. I weigh the pros agasint cons, then Shakakon like I'm K. West. Extend my arm and drop a bomb when this mic turn on. My future brighter than prospects, standing on Prospect while the Sunset waiting to get it on

Depression, is an infection, a collection of imperfections magnified by a clouded mind beyond the point of corrections.  Festering inside yourself hating. Laying there waiting, in the depths of your core, sanctioned by Satan. Anticipating, when your courage goes vacant, and your ego runs adjacent, and your mind becomes complacent. Before you can catch your second wind, depression sets in.   Telling you lies about what others are thinking. Leveraging your weaknesses, to make you a weakling. And you wont have an inkling.  Even thought you are loved, you feel unloved because you heart is in  glare; instead of protecting what is pure, its projecting things that are there, and reflecting your feeling you feel out of fear. about what  others think, or why they don't care – get stuck in your own thoughts with no time to sphere.

Your thoughts are not matter.
maybe not to them, but to you.
which is enough.
There, sitting inside of you waiting for you to give them the breathe of life, strong enough breed the kind of light that might change a life.
that changes times
inspire minds that
in time, changes minds
repeat that one thousand-times
you've made his story
from speaking your mind.

My words flowed from my mouth like a perfectly tuned faucet, as the bright spot light, shinned down on my off-set. The audience didn't object, to the imagery I painted. My stanza's killing to the page for dear life, waiting to be read right; from my eager lips -- sheets shifting, pages crumbling, stomaching rumbling, the audience attention's shifts - and my nightmare always ends like this.

A day dream, about me sharing my gift. The ability to uplift -- then finding my self in deep ****. In the middle of reciting it. I keep relieving, and re-sighting it. All this doubt in my mind, I keep inviting it. That's why I instead of becoming a spoken word, I'll just keep writing it., because stage fright, is some frightening ****.

Instead of asking for permission rather beg for forgiveness this is my life you'd understand if you lived this my heart bare witness to what other shouldn't witness learned from my lessons with the quickness started making moves on these misfits moving figures with logistics made moves left my imprint on modern day blueprints and morse code on these infants killing with instinct in an instant while making moves in sequence my frequency is frequent