Who the hell you think are to be demanding me a poem?
Mozart of this art like all these written no-gimmick lyrics are my profession,
Woah, that flow's a shard piercin' you and while you're bleedin', I tell you a fine confession:
This is freedom of expression, this is me out of depression, physics is nowhere near a suggestion for reason behind the never-yet-reached depths of my perception.

Boy you be readin' these ill lines by a writer so sublime, you couldn't fathom or imagine what it's like to be behind the steerin' wheel of the high-paced drive up in my mind,
All these spitting free-verse like that's skilled, yeah sure but they're nowhere close to flowin' poems so potent it could blind,
You can play this like over to cope, you'll need to pause and rewind not one, two, three but at least four times.

This is be that sick spittin' raw ****, you aint heard on the radio,
This be that thick ****, masculinity half gentleman half wild-lion ROAR and make those ladies hoes,
This be the new age slim shady yo, basic rappers way too slow, Mumble rapping on a track and reading **** like BABY PRO,
Na **** that mainstream ****, dawg this be that underground vicious ****,
Boy I've been slitting throat downtown before rap ever was for the ***** *****,
I'm that middle-school rap era, where gangsters could mean black but also Vinnie Paz, shout-out to the most-feared real-deal Gladiator straight from that Sicily pit,
I love Paz for his delivery, flow and anti-gimmicky lyrical potency like no other G that'***** that'***** the scene,
I love Tech for the flow man, Em for the show and love Minaj for puns and Hopsin for being the pioneer or bringing REAL RAP back, he's a cunning industry player but **** HE GOT FLOW. Chris Webby for the raw masculinity-vibe progressive ****, spreading those vibes getting the world to hear his messages,
I love Bugzy and Devs and a little Wiley doesn't hurt,
Grime Scene's a beautiful off-shoot of rap that unlike mumble crap is an old beautiful tree that grew straight from the dirt,
Imma leave it here, let me on this site so your ***** can squirt,
If you're a guy you'll wish you were me but turnin' me down's buryin' what you know be that legit **** that like a Phoenix'll rebirth.

The translucent glass
Small vines wrap around
It connects the inside to the outer shell
The bones of hollow
And the gloss of blues
Vivid to the eye
Reflections of light show themselves
The small mysteries of earthy heavens
The sounds of frigid winds carry
The small angels of earth
They blend and blind the blood ones
Those who stalk its lusterful beauty
To watch it float is like to watch a tear fall
Fall from the eyes of innocence
Glowing with flames of ice
Perpetual harmonious laughter
Ringing like small myths to the eyes
Glorious creature they are
Glorious they will be,
Those who fly

The past is
               the future
Unwoven in concisnece.

For we are but a
           pebble in
A pond of ripples.

Though we do not
      make a splash.


       Beneath,

we disturb


       The flow.

The day sits waiting in it's pear-shaped
room, one of the vacant eyed occupants of other, older,
occupied chairs.
The day crosses it's knees, one leg
over the other as a white flag,
resignation.
The day wants it's peace,
it fought the world wars, caught it's reflection aged,
tripped over itself
calling itself out, a
tripwire
unravelled.
This day knows it won't live tomorrow,
knows it's wanted blind and poor, so waits
           waits
in a waiting room,
wasting the room's air in an exchange of
          silent
blows.
This day is counting down it's losses, putting
all of it's seconds in a jam jar.

And there are screams never externalised, legs never uncrossed,
paperweights weighing less than those they push to the floor, and
this day is
screaming,
this day is
flailing
from the inside out in the form of folded linen,
inconspicuous on a plastic chair.
This day holds
up the moon,
hears it's laughter and falls through the cracks
in the tide.
His knuckles aren't
connected to his fingertips and
shoulders feet apart
from the spine,
the spine crossing one leg over the other in a pear-shaped room
with fingertips tapping at themselves, writhing into an hourglass formation.
This day is holding
up the walls.
Count this day lost when your eyes skip it, miss it, dance past it
in a waiting room.
Count this day screaming
when you wake up tomorrow.

Soft focus is not hocus pocus
It is relaxing the locus of concentration
But staying aware of the state of mentation

It is breathing free
With perfect clarity

It is falling asleep
But waking up to dream

It is forsaking worry
For a flurry of focal points
Getting blurry between the joints

So sink into the fabric of space
Erase the stitches of time
Wrap up in this infinite quilt
Guilt-free equanimity
Silt free liquid purity
Rest in perfect surety
Divest your uncertainty
There is no space ‘twixt you and me
Only particles we cannot see

You see I was I was
reading this book right
this real great book
and i had it in my hands
and im seeing this scene
that its describing
im not gonna go into the details
right now per se but im seeing it
in my head, you know
you know like how when
youre reading the words
but not really because they
are becoming blurred
and the picture just
kinda appears
in your brain
like you are living it,
like you are actually there
but you can't be
its just something that you see
without eyes
it blooms and engulfs the inside
of your mind
it opens the door and enters calmly
and makes it self at home, like a
painting on the wall
or or
like a number youve been meaning to call
do you see what im saying?

so that got me thinking, hear me out
you can imagine anything, yes i know duh
the pictures can sprout and bloom
become overgrown and be trimmed
maintained or treated with disdain
or with some good ole TLC,
really anything you want
a home a gnome a crystal phone
in Rome trapped on the wrong end of a honed
pearly white bone,
what does it mean oh let me tell you
i havent got a clue not one
but what about
a light you were shown when you were
younger but somehow still aware
that what you really need is somewhere
out there
or in there I should say,
does that mean something or does it
only hold significance because its your memory
of what you did when you were young
because right now you arent moving you arent seeing
anything you are just there with a blank stare
and if you measured the time that was lost
in this state it would be sad it would be
disappointing yeah if you watched it from the side
but from my view its fantastic i see lights
in different colors and see crystal worlds and
different others, thoughts borne of differing
mothers from different places
but all the same
down the same path
from the same origin,
its all really a walk down the map
to find your own x
but thats a discussion for another day
but as i was saying it could lead
to so many different places
filled with beautiful faces and cases
left shattered and broken on the ground
and everything is sound and safe
but then there is a clap or a pop
and bam you are awake, aware
that you were stuck staring into thin air
trying to see shapes  
awake awake awake
and then its all gone like an old song
that youve forgotten the words too
but sounds so so so so
familiar,
you know?