Had a conversation with Midas;
It got me thinking different.
Lebron James flow, I guess that y’all the witness.
I’m contemplating so much, it’s hard to write a sentence.
Early stage of my twenty’s, yet still I feel a menace.
We blur the lines of life and death whether it’s right or wrong.
But I love you through everything;
still I’m holding on.

And for so long I just been locked away.
Been writing in notebooks trying to find my way.
Midas sat and he told me I shouldn’t sell my soul.
You need to just get the ball rolling, you getting old.
Your heart got cold, sat in the freezer on the early days of summer, to chill, now you writing but against your will.
And I’m crying.
And on the inside I’m dying.
Every body says be strong, and believe me I’m trying.
Midas said that I be lying.
To get infatuation.
I wiped my eyes and I asked how to change this situation.
He said it’s your destination.
Change up your formation.
And stop all that leaking on the internet about complications.
Found that open door.
But you don’t wanna walk thru.
I love you through everything should’ve dropped; somehow I thought I lost you.
But later it will cost you.
Know you feeling kinda awful
Ima come back and see just where this conversation got you.
But I didn’t tell it all.
I figured I would call,
And tell Midas I’m focused and I’m ready to ball.
While I sit, just all alone in a empty hall.
As all of my mishaps are posters on the wall.

watch as your whole world crumbles.
the air you breathe turns to gold.
and you choke as it forces its way
down your throat and into your lungs.

tell me midas, was it worth it?

that midas touch.

Midas was my enemy,
A violent grip, on an old pen
Tossed it over for me to bend
Words for his twisted golden mind

The cursed King with all his riches
Wanted the prose for cure
A rhythmic rhyme  to rid his shine
To end his touch of alchemy

I pitied the old man, his metallic
Skin, did send shivers down my spine
I offered a verse, reading and lips pursed
As 24 karats fell from his eyes

I love that you
make my body
feel real.
I love that you have
the Midas touch.
And I love
that you
made me gold.

Bureaucrats and clergymen
differ only in doctrine.

But their altars steam
with the blood
of untold innocents.

The Pope, Stalin, and ******—
all canvass the people
with warped visions
of Paradise.

(Oh, Celan, you saw it
too well.)

Bloodletting for peace...

Pitchforks stoke the fires
to make dainty foot warmers
for Moloch and Midas.

He was a rather special sort,
To those who knew him,
And knew him not.
Tingles ran through his finger tips,
A golden chalice,
Held to his lips.

This Midas had a curious touch,
That left him mighty,
Not wanting much.
Golden forms from his fingers dashed,
Enemies transformed,
Into piles of cash.

A merry man, he strut through town
An arms length clear zone,
Did him surround.
When a wondrous girl he saw, so bold
She walked right to him,
No fear of gold.

Such beauty never before had beamed
Eyes lowered down,
Hair bounced and gleamed
When she glided close enough to kiss,
She met his gaze...
he touched her cheek...
and the last thing they heard...
Was a chorused hiss.

So if you should walk down that street,
King Midas and
His love you'll meet.
King turned to stone, with outstretched hand
And with head of yellow snakes
A golden Medusa stands.

I'm sad and alone and everything I touch turns to gold,
but that's the life,
amirite?
Money's the only matter that matters and some kids three worlds away are getting kidnapped and killed for quotas while these kids are worried about their quote of the day. And,
by kids,
I mean little girls at age three being sold on the streets and in between sheets in countries that aren't all that far away, and little boys whose coloring pages are filled with explosions and guns cause it's literal
war
they're waging. But down the way, parents are posting posters in their children's rooms prompting inspiration: it's something about peace and love-- I mean, that's what they all say.
Well, I've made my peace with the pieces of this prayer, a priest standing golden over me as I throw my diamond-encrusted hands to the air and scream, "Someone
save me."
But these people don't care.
I am a man of gold with a heart of stone and no one cares because, frankly,
Neither do I.
Statistically speaking, everyone in the States clings to the belief that if they just earned an extra fifteen percent wage annually,
then they could live happily.
But,
darling,
when everything you touch turns to gold, statistics don't
quite
fit
the diagnostics.
I
am the outlier, the outright liar, the purveyor of pride that cost me my life but
who cares? I mean,
I've got my money.
I've got my money in a capitalist country that feeds off circulation and circumstance that leads brains to short-circuit short-cut economic politics and slaughter chances, rather than enhancing the value of a life that money can't add up to.
Welcome to the slaughterhouse.
Welcome to the tolerance of intolerance of humanity. Welcome
to the closing scene, where we can be seen on the Globe, on William Shakespeare's pun-fully named stage cause that's what all the world is,
and so's
this gold.
It's a play,
cause some day the curtains will close and all my props will remain on the stage and I am sad and alone with my heart still fo stone but without any gold. I've
lost
my
touch, and
without this cash I'll be nothing but a ten second news flash announcing to the rest of these underpaid actors that I've been knocked off my throne.
I don't think I was ever a king to begin with,
just a man who could forge
fool's gold.

I find your soul within my hands,
My power is to great
My people love me
These coins are as bright as the sun
Everything I touch, brings me riches
But everything I touch I lose happiness

You bring me riches
Your eyes are as bright as diamonds
While your hair is as slick as silver

I find your soul within my hands
I wish I could feel your warmth
I wish I could hold your hand
With you, I wish I can grow old
But every time we touch
you turn into gold