Poetry as a painting.
Far from lazy.
Understanding each day.
My aura is like an ultra violet ray.
My flow never leaves.
Even in below zero degrees
I will no longer freeze.
Volcanic activities
triggered by a small breeze.
I confess I spoke to spirits
broke my fingers when I wrote those lyrics
Then passed out on a boat in Venice
. The Wireless is now off.
Talk.
Feels like I ain't got no pulse.
The camera caught me channelling in thought but it's not my fault. 
Dead tones in the ocean.
Nuclear implosion.
They gave me the job out of no where.
Writing carbon monoxide poems.
A prophet helping those find their own....