Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Ourn folk's telleth us
The monster's art the one's who resideth under ourn bed....
They told me when I greweth up....
BRANDON,
Son....
We lied to thee....

The true monster's
Art the rich one's running ourn government
And planting evil in thy cities.....
They don't hide under the bed,
But in bunker's!!!!
And mansion's built by their own pity....
Like a 1969 poetic hippy on haight-ashbury street,
Mine pen is another san-franciscan song
Making another poetic beat....
Bump
Bop bop
Bump
Bop pa tee bop
Bump
Bop bop
Bump
Bop pa tee bop....
Playing that spiritual poetic sound........

Wearing flower's in mine hair
Is something the normals
Couldst not understand!
About a free spirited poetic as me...
Untamed mammals release tensions before mine own eye's. Chains art broke, none more cloaks to hide those dreading thoughts of suicide. Raging dictating swearer's, jewels traded for tools as the sun lowers. Tis this place gets rarer and bare. . . . . . .Cars surround. Compound their rubbers to bullets of blood issued steel. . .Captivating and excruciating. Music to thy ear's turneth to bad news! ! Chess sweepers. Checker winners. Both losers whilst the rest born sinners. . . Costly state pay to fatcat pocket books hands; some issue warnings whilst protective custody issues dull demands. . . . . All prosecution standeth  to issued remaxed detective blogees. . . . . . .redneck respecters cometh with protectors whilst the odd breeds cometh with a dodger. . . . . .mystique, defeat. . . . .to thy hands thou art tied from behind! Move up the latter, tasteth thine coroded own chatter, the deaf art now the blind. . . . . . .
Next page