Playin' games.
=============
Jay Text Sandman aka Skitz Text

Set the timer click click now the clock is tick tockin'.
I came to play the game. Like a KNIK KNAK knockin'.
Your rhyme flow is slow you know like PLAYDOUGH.
I gobble up fine rhymes like a HUNGRY HIPPO.
Like SUBBUTEO I kick it.
Shruggin' off your challenge like BUCKAROO kickin'..
..up ****. I sunk your BATTLESHIP.
You played out your game of CHARADES. That's it.
I dig deep in me rhyme dictionary.
You scrawl on the the wall like palsy PICTIONARY.
Not strugglin'. I'm jugglin' the rhymes in me head.
Slam dunk. KERPLUNK. Nuff said.
No, never. No way. Who am I kiddin'?
You know I got the rhymes. And I got the rhythm.
I confess. Like a game of CHESS.
Checkmate. No debate. Not a pretty pawn missin'. *  

It’s the end of the games like RIP,
I Multikill MC’s like COD,
Keep your mind on your MINECRAFT can’t catch me,
Cause Skitz is EC's Artillery,
droppin bombs watch the FALLOUT or you’re Dogmeat
FAR CRY from the old days of CRT
So your attempt is DOOMed best clear the room,
SWAT’s get Swatted Mic shotgun BOOM!,
Blast backdraft will destroy your CIV,
No cheat codes PAC em up MAN time to give,
RESPEC- to the PORTAL gun hangin’ on me hip,
You’ve got HALF a LIFE left faster than NO CLIP
But I said no cheatin’ Hackers get Hacked up,
No Multiplayer,cause you’ve no backup,
I’m glorying in the games we play,
Checkmate VS XBOX  pass to Jay.

Chorus
Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic and it's Jay to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

When I flex it's hectic. Like SCALEXTRIC.
Switch lanes to PERFECTION.
I've a MONOPOLY in this game.
Don't pass go. Go straight to jail.
You fall like DOMINOES. I leap like a salmon.
Tisk tisk. Big RISK. Now I have BACKGAMMON.
Stamina. A steady hand OPERATION.
Ace up me sleeve and I'm just playin' PATIENCE.
Got me POKERface on.
Read 'em and weep as the game plays on.
I got a dead mans hand but I animate the mic.
BULLDOGS charge. You know I'll reach the other side.
Back to me den.
Repeat after me like SIMON SAYS.
RED ROVER, RED ROVER. I call Jay over.
You think it's over ?
No my friend. *  

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

This Steam Machine is heatin' up a treat
So don’t be TEKKEN the ****,just feel the beat,
This KOMBAT’s MORTAL to enemies,
But it’s a full HEALTH PACK to Fans of E.C.,
So OverClock your CPU,
get your Soundcard Jumpin like chimps in SIM ZOO,
drop DICE on ICE from here to Timbuktoo,
STREET FIGHTER’s and Writers BIOSHOCKin' you

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

I SPY with my little eye.
Somethin' beginnin' with J. I let fly.
As your JENGA tower wobbles.
I smile. You drop tiles. Dropped your poxy box of SCRABBLE.
Look out. That could spell disaster.
Triple word score as the rhymes rip past ya. Blast ya.
Quick out the trap like The Flash playin' SNAP.
Check the lyrical master. *
As the Dungeon Dragon spreads his wings-lets fly
playin' the game the pied piper pies,
catch you rats in me MOUSETRAP its a snap,
"cause I wrote the rhymes that broke the bulls back"
I'm the KING OF THE HILL I got ya QUICKSCOPIN'
in THE SHADOWS OF MORDOR prayin' and hopin'
for a hero like MARIO to bust you loose,
Jay's SNAKE'n' up the LADDER time to twist the noose

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

What ya think ?              
Me rhymes kink, bend and fold like TWISTER.
A wicked rhythm like DOUBLE DUTCH. Skip, skip.
Like EVEL KNIEVEL. Flywheel spinnin'.
Rev it up. Dump the clutch.        
See me grinnin'. Knockin' down the pin and..
SPIROGRAPH lines in me rhyme. I'm spinnin..
..out of control. You can't cope with me GYROSCOPE.
I bring you back to the beginnin'.*

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.

Faded ink.
Deep, majestic black to a shy blue
hints at a thrill that no longer thrives
but serves an imprinted reminder
of a time that breathed happiness.

Around and around,
days into nights,
we grew into each other
without notice.
Weighted contours
made beautifully complex shapes,
we’d  twist and curve
harmonic and sound,
constantly moving
in these flawless, repeating circles.

When it ends—
[and it will,
because the monotony
of the same motion
will scare you]
you’ll be left wondering how
you could sit there and become
so immersed in something
that was so perfect and simple.
Perfectly simple.
You stop and step back.
You breathe and regret.
You take it in and admire.
The saddest part
is to realize that this piece is left
unfinished.
No closure, no color,
just the monotone outlines
of some gorgeous, accidental idea.

It’s been a while since I’ve tried to make sense of it all
It’s actually been forever in my mind since I’ve tried to make sense of anything,
My ideas, my thoughts, my problems they all jumble up together in my head,
They all started to look the same.
Maybe it’s Cause I keep looking for love in the same places I loose it,
Maybe it’s one of the many problems I’ve yet to admit I have thats keeping me interested in anything,
I’m so interested in the thoughts in my head I forget the date,
But I’m so interested in remembering the date that I don’t pay attention to the problems — thoughts. In my head.
It’s like when someone flicks the light switch on in a dark room over and over again, for a moment everything makes sense then you can’t see, and then can then you can’t,
And it just becomes a loop,
Like a Spirograph it looks beautiful on paper but once you try to follow it the more beautiful it is the harder it is to follow it. I’m really ******* tired of being a Spirograph. Beautiful on paper
But really hard to follow.

You toss a coin
or turn a card
anyway you throw the dice
you know that life is hard
so you want to take it easy in some nice bijou apartment
but you know that 'heaven sent'
is just a figment of imagination.
Creation's just a spirograph
it makes you cry
it makes you laugh
and in the end
someone will send an 'etch a sketch' to wipe you clean.

So fetch your dream ******* in bows
tie it to the arrows of the discontent
let them fly off to our parliament
and then forget,
that we were once the future that was told
but now we're old
we are expendable.

Sitting very quietly, looking at a blank page
Prompted me to pen a poem about toys that were all the rage
I had some wooden jigsaw blocks when I was only two
In a wooden  box with a shiny brass clasp
And a picture of Winnie the Pooh

I remember at the age of six, when I was given some stickle bricks
Plastic shapes so colourful, with brushes of small plastic fingers
Making a train of red, yellow and green, the memory of it still lingers
Then at the age of seven, I remember ‘coming a cropper'
When dared by my cousins to bounce up the street
On their big and orange space-hopper

When I was eight, my favourite toy was a plastic daredevil skydiver
Many parachute jumps from the top of the stairs, that guy was a true survivor
When I was nine, the Spirograph, a drawing toy based on gears,
Was my favourite toy to play with, watching marvellous patterns appear

At ten years old I found building with Meccano lots of fun
Metal strips and gears and nuts and bolts, invented in 1901
When I was eleven the Rubik’s Cube was really all the rage
With coloured squares, six sides of nine, a puzzle for any age

At the age of twelve, Shinsai  Mystery was my fave
Two eight-hinged polyhedra could be folded into many shapes
At the age of thirteen, my baby brother was born
His favourite toy was Lego, my love of building things was reborn
There are many toys of yesteryear, would take ages to mention the rest
But for me, after all these years, Lego will always be the best

My tears are salty.
They sting my face.
Blur my vision.
I close my eyes and think of the ocean
It is flat
I try to see to the other side.
I cannot.it is endless.
I close my eyes and I see the sand.
Each grain blowing.
I try to see to the other side
I cannot..it is endless.
My thoughts are circling.
Like a pen on a Spirograph.
Circling.I try to stop.
It is endless.
I want them to see my smile.
And remember me.
I want them to remember my mind.
It is brilliant.
I want them to remember my laughter.
It is infectious
I want them to remember my love for them.
It is pure.
My pain is real.
Hurts so much
I want to surrender.
My eyes are closed.
But tears still blur my vision
I am not afraid.
I want them to know
I am not afraid.
I wish I could see beyond to the other side.
My arms are open.
And I am not afraid.
Please remember
I will fly forever.

When you see people walking with their phone seemingly attached to their hand,
it's because it is

I got my iPhone 4S in 6th grade
my twin lost hers three times before we entered high school, but I-
i took care of mine

I had the option to upgrade
to abandon and trade in
but i didn't want to
my iPhone 4s fit into my hand
small, like me

Last May, I was reaching into the car
to grab my sister's backpack
to be helpful, of all things

But I extended the wrong hand
and in a graceful dancer's leap, my phone arced away from me
and crashed face-down on the dark gravel drive

I picked it up
stared down at the spirograph of cracks
I clicked the home button
and by some miracle, the screen threw brightness back at me

It's held together by tape now, peeling ***** tape
it has times where it panics, glitches and melts down
'let me go' i think it's telling me

people always ask with awe, 'how can this thing still work?'
i keep telling them i'll get a new one soon, the newest version of all maybe!
but some part of me just doesn't want to give up hope

Cracks and light, broken and functioning

can't you see? i wonder
My phone is a reflection of me

He sits in his stupor.
Pooled upon the floor.
Normally, that's how he prays.

He writes his best.
In his centre handed spirograph.
To tell the world how he hurts.

Like the shrinkless rest of us he writes.
The best he knows, the only way he knows.
Honesty and suffering. A man, convicted to the pit.

A paradise for staring eyes
Spectacular show.

But he has no interest.
His talent is his silence.
Spoken through his words.
Wound in his insanity.

Honesty is a bike.
Ridden by everyone, but mastered by very few.

And so he waffles on. Because he loves bikes.