I Step on Stones.
In Circles, Cloaked.
Around a Choking Shell.
Who's fed the words he wrote.

Perched atop a mass of Ego.
He Brags; he Swags; he gloats, as he knows,
He's like every other Starving Artist.
His Stomach Screams for the taste of his own.

A phony pony stuck at home. He,
Licks the ink of his own stories.
Hand in mouth, with a hand no doubt,
He'd rather kiss then any Glory.

Eat the Paint, and Verse the Strokes.
Reverse your mind, negate the flow.
Get over yourself.