I am the master of my destiny,
But it’s difficult to know what I’m destined to be,
So I mastered the skill of poetry in hopes to invest in me.
Thus the power would be vested in me,
And I wouldn’t have to submit to anyone else
To get the best of me.
My words are disturbed,
My belligerent inflictions are deserved,
My fictitious non-fictions are just misheard,
My religious depictions are called absurd,
They rage savagely as they say, “Blasphemy.”
To convey opinions is a task for me,
But if you’re asking me to speak rationally,
Don’t be mad at me, when I ration radically.
My passion was passionately
Passed to me by a God that has to be a part of me,
Or at least partially inside the art part of me.
If He is an entity totally apart from me,
Then why does this feeling remain in my veins?
And please do explain these pains in my
Feet, hands and scalp around my brain.
You say it’s because I’ve been walking all day,
Trying to find my way because I’m lost always,
And all the ways that I take
Bring me back to the same place.
So I sit and write all day until my fingers ache,
In hopes to eradicate my hate and vacate
From this block, city and state
And cop pretty estates.
But writer’s block stops my speedy escape,
I scratch my head until it bleeds to my face.
Still you choose to have hate for my stigmatic fate,
And feel you must take from my ecstatic state,
Just because you frustrate from my enigmatic style,
Then throw sticks and stones to shatter my smile.
Your words won’t hurt,
And flipping the bird don’t work,
And you would never bother to flip through my works.
You just flap your lips and let the whip go berserks,
Until it strips through my soul after it rips through my shirt.
Society is real quick to crucify,
But in this life
It’s do or die
And I refuse to choose to die.
I remember I used to lie
Because my truth was too shy,
But now I’m used to life,
And realize there’s no use to lie.
As I lie on the crucifix these cruel critics fixed upon me,
Just know that I wrote it how it was supposed to be.
Even when I die my fans will be excited to know it’s me,
Resurrected anytime they decide to recite my poetry.
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 12:17 AM UTC
I am the master of my destiny,
But it’s difficult to know what I’m destined to be,
So I mastered the skill of poetry in hopes to invest in me.
Thus the power would be vested in me,
And I wouldn’t have to submit to anyone else
To get the best of me.
My words are disturbed,
My belligerent inflictions are deserved,
My fictitious non-fictions are just misheard,
My religious depictions are called absurd,
They rage savagely as they say, “Blasphemy.”
To convey opinions is a task for me,
But if you’re asking me to speak rationally,
Don’t be mad at me, when I ration radically.
My passion was passionately
Passed to me by a God that has to be a part of me,
Or at least partially inside the art part of me.
If He is an entity totally apart from me,
Then why does this feeling remain in my veins?
And please do explain these pains in my
Feet, hands and scalp around my brain.
You say it’s because I’ve been walking all day,
Trying to find my way because I’m lost always,
And all the ways that I take
Bring me back to the same place.
So I sit and write all day until my fingers ache,
In hopes to eradicate my hate and vacate
From this block, city and state
And cop pretty estates.
But writer’s block stops my speedy escape,
I scratch my head until it bleeds to my face.
Still you choose to have hate for my stigmatic fate,
And feel you must take from my ecstatic state,
Just because you frustrate from my enigmatic style,
Then throw sticks and stones to shatter my smile.
Your words won’t hurt,
And flipping the bird don’t work,
And you would never bother to flip through my works.
You just flap your lips and let the whip go berserks,
Until it strips through my soul after it rips through my shirt.
Society is real quick to crucify,
But in this life
It’s do or die
And I refuse to choose to die.
I remember I used to lie
Because my truth was too shy,
But now I’m used to life,
And realize there’s no use to lie.
As I lie on the crucifix these cruel critics fixed upon me,
Just know that I wrote it how it was supposed to be.
Even when I die my fans will be excited to know it’s me,
Resurrected anytime they decide to recite my poetry.
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