It is ironically funny, that in the land of milk and honey I pray for two shots of whiskey. Tell the devil come and get me, but, I'm not going gently. I never met a single sorrow that I was able to drown, yet, never had a wrong up that I couldn’t write down. So even though my demons keep following me around, they don’t talk to me now, they don’t even make sound. They just lick their lips and then they look at me and grin while I'm gripping this pen like, I'm never getting it again. It is almost as if they think I'm writing it for them. But why would I want to play a game that no one gets to win? I would like welcome you to my mind; but I'm out of it. How is it I'm proud of it and still not powerless? It's simple, my prowess is not made of counterfeits. And now it gets people to keep openly noticing the potency of the flow in me is known to be overly, thought provokingly, and notably infectious. My poetry is restless, so, just knowing me is reckless.