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.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 3:26 AM UTC
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.
I chose a title as ambiguous in the beginning as it was clear in the end.
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