Intro
Your voice always gets to me through
the convincing brutal honesty in verbal abuse.
From the moment I first heard you, I knew
I could never win with you,
but I didn't wanna lose,
'cause you made me high too.
I know it's not an excuse, but I choose
to stay confused and just refuse
to let it go and say goodbye to you.
What if I'll feel so empty without you?
Without the feeling I'm in now,
'cause I love being in it
forever everywhere, I swear, I mean it.
And I guess there's nothing wrong with having a little crush on you
just for a minute.
It's okay, but hey,
I'm not trying to justify a guy with a short fuse
and mean demeanor.
I mean, I know it can be meaner.
No matter how amused by you,
I kind of feel like I'm used.
Not that I accuse you, just warn you
that it's a bad habit you'd better not get used to.
Though, you're still my muse.
I wish I were your muse too
so that I could listen to your new song like I used to,
'cause it's exhausting,
but I can't help listening to your awesome anguishing agony,
your music you use to let loose,
release exhaust fumes,
your evergreen, everlasting spring in solitary torturing you.
Much as I wouldn't dare fit in your shoes,
I'd like to rap with you, but I live in ludicrous blues.
You gave me so much pain and pleasure through your art,
that grew so deep into your soul and your body that you now embody rap.
And I want to thank you accordingly,
repay you with both sides of the same coin,
with the range of reflections from hilarious rage to evil love.
Enjoy.
Pipe dream
Of course, you don't know me as a person.
By the way, it's also vice versa,
I don't know you either.
It's not like I wrote a lot of verses.
But I wish this one could make us closer.
It's a pity you'll never read it.
But if you did, it would mean the world to me,
especially if you wrote back.
It would be an event of the scale of the second advent,
'cause you are closed for me like a celestial deity,
hidden behind the veil of a subconscious dream.
I can always find time for you,
but you never have it for me.
It breaks my heart that it's just a pipe dream.
Still, I gotta try to make it come true.
I will keep writing to believe that I can get through to you.
I'm aware of how much time it may take.
But as long as magic is real, my feelings aren't fake.
I don't care what your name is and where you are from
or how much money you've got in your bank account.
It only matters how you perform.
After all, you've won an Oscar,
not for being a good actor, though.
But you did play your *** off
staying true to yourself, showed the world
your cold white cocky cheeky ***,
and opened up your incandescent soul
as if it's a bold, wide-open, giant *******,
inflicting your **** upon the world,
being a sassy drama-queen pain in the ***,
'cause you're an *******.
That may make me look like I'm your worst fan.
But I really didn't wanna hurt your feelings at all.
It's just, no matter what you do,
open your mouth, be sad as ****, or, God forbid, even smile,
some bunch of people that see you
somehow manage to get ******* every time.
And it's true.
Well, I guess, of all people,
you should appreciate a rapturously sarcastic joy.
Don't take offense, I'm only kidding,
just playing with you, my favorite toy.
For what it's worth,
you are the best superhuman Rapboy
on Earth.
With this, you've been blessed and cursed since birth.
Jesus, can you believe this?
They say you're a genius.
If it isn't love, I don't know what it is.
Except it might be some kind of addiction or a contagious disease.
And as every disease, it will increase,
then finally cease and release.
Or maybe not, then I will tragically die
and, hopefully, find my peace with ease.
Compared to tormenting life,
it must be a piece of cake,
easy as pie just to decease.
Anyway, you probably shouldn't even read this,
I have to admit.
Indeed, why would you read it,
when you got your own ****?
Well, I guess, everyone has a story about which nobody gives a ****.
Anyhow, should you, however, dare read it now,
make sure you still have enough spare time
and there's no one around
to wipe your *** and polish your crown,
‘cause it's long, and you're not that young
to be disturbed or waste your time.
You know, I didn't want to post this verse at first.
Then I thought it's worth a shot.
What the hell? Let's see how it goes,
pens out, and grows.
It may get complicated.
But I hope you'll understand it.
You can do it. I believe in you.
Now, let's see how the magic works.
Are you ready, big fat rap star boy,
still sick slim shady?
‘Cause I’mma roast your *** as no one else ever did before.
It's gonna be hotter than hell.
So hot that the devil himself will envy you at first,
then feel so sorry for you, baby,
that he will even let you endeavor
to get into heaven.
No, wait, actually, the real question now is,
am I ready to mess with the real Slim Shady?
May I have your attention, please,
to stand up for yourself?
Wow! That's unheard of and a lil’ intimidatin’, to be honest.
So be that as it may, we shall see.
I guess, it depends on how deep
we can take this… whatever it is.
Anyways, it won't hurt him.
I promise.
Illusion
I actually see that
we share the same illusion of
mutual love.
Sometimes it seems, though,
I'm a bit delusional
and stuck in appealing bluff
with my life, cut in half.
As I am torn in two between me and you,
getting the wrong impression
and making the false conclusion
of falling for you like a fool,
eager to lose myself in this confusion
and overwhelming passion,
in an instant, turning into the irrational obsession of a buff
that's stunningly never enough,
'cause it makes me feel special,
a rough fuse on the expression
of the eternal hunger for love.
Life is worthless without this feeling.
Isn't that how it's supposed to be?
I just gotta keep believing
that it's not destroying me.
I'd been living in denial for a long time, though,
lying to myself that you were not bad, not good either,
just gradually growing on me, fantasizing,
pretending that you could be my friend,
feigning that I wasn't your fan.
Unfortunately I am.
But I do my best not to be.
I do all I can.
It doesn't help.
I know it's bad for my head.
It's unhealthy.
Yet, I can't help it.
It just happened.
I guess it had to happen.
Dang! I don’t understand it
and hate to admit
that it's a nasty, hot pleasure and pain
to be your stan.
Still, I can't stand the idea that I can't leave ya,
no matter how hard I try.
I can't withstand.
In my defense, I'm a petite woman,
and you're a superman.
As always, what I resist persists.
I'd love to have faith in your words,
believe the irresistible sweet lie,
the convincing feeling
that you are extremely appealing,
the attractive illusion I want to believe in.
I think I'll forgive you,
even if you hurt me, make me cry,
‘cause you are so sweet, smooth, and swift,
like a knife
for every bonnie girl to collide with.
And I don't know why
I have to live with this wound in my heart till the day I die,
this ****** hole, caused by a cold steel of the blade, stealing my life.
Maybe it's because this wild fire,
being born in me, burns in me,
burning me while I'm still alive.
And I still can't understand why.
Man, if I've ever actually met you, I'd be like,
“Wow! How?
I mean, Hi.
*******, I don't know why,
but suddenly, I feel so ******* high right now.”
Yeah, I do like you a lot, I like your style.
It's like I've known you all my life.
So you see it's bad for mental health
to tell people, especially ****** poetry junkies everything about yourself.
You know, I'd love your words even more
if I were you.
I mean, if you were me, bro.
Nonetheless, I am the victim of your art now,
like in a way you are of mine.
You just don't know it yet,
being trapped by the sense of mind
in the cage of space and time.
Hard to read it, huh?
Sure, you can read it, duh.
Nothing is impossible for you, superstar.
Don't be ******* your stans. It's not fair.
Being your fan is like a nightmare,
from which they can't wake up so far.
Addictive obsession
I keep coming back to your addictive personality,
'cause it's a part of me,
my personal reality
in the childish,
stupidly struggling with my own aggression mentality
that pulls me in like gravity
of the synergetic, badly needed duality.
You are my dark shade,
angry and always hungry twin
in a distorting mirror,
a meaner reflection in me.
And you complete me and keep me on track,
even though it leads to a brain wreck,
violent calamity,
causing a permanent damage
due to the lack of virtuous verbal morality,
offensive obscene insanity
that almost makes you a possessive fiend,
***** devil, pure evil, the enemy of the humanity,
having fun, making fun of everybody,
making fans of them, including me.
******* my brains, instead of making love,
******* with this ****** up reality,
from which you tried to get distracted
through getting addicted to drugs, though.
You would substitute your depression
with substance abuse and excessive passion,
embracing your obsession
and balancing in the range of rage and compassion,
hurting people you love
because people who were supposed to love you, hurt you too.
That, I have enough empathy to understand
for one reason.
And I'm not proud of it,
but I have to admit
that, sadly, I kinda do the same
for the same reason.
Shame on me.
Then again, I don't wanna complain,
but I find myself in your pain,
drowned in the inane feeling I can't explain,
running away from this stupid game
to feel not so lame and remain sane,
trying to commit to the promises I've made to myself in vain
about resolving the main issue of staying in the same habitual refrain,
even if I have to abstain from your demonic music with diabolical lyrics
or at least change my name,
claiming to have found a new aim to regain my dignity.
It’s supposed to make me feel better, but it ain’t.
I hope I'm on my way to break free from shame and blame,
the flame of emotional lability,
still restrained,
being mesmerized by the vicious samsara circle of infinity,
this magnificent ouroboros
of the endless sense of gain or loss,
stored in countless stories about yesterdays and tomorrows,
in the illusory plot, written carefully for us,
in neverending, invisible time that everyone borrows.
Now, I don't mind being a fan of someone who's already dead.
But of someone who's still alive?
That's just sick, living legend.
Don't you think?
See, I start realizing
that I’m a sinner, ‘cause I idolize you.
How did I end up in your satanic cult without invitation?
Boy, do I look yet like I need to be exorcized
or just meditate and exercise
in a silent harbor of a life-saving rehab
after a highly enlightening, heart-warming, emotional intervention?
As if I'm possessed by the supernatural force of obsession
that wants to be expressed with an excessive passion.
You know what I mean.
Man, you've been high so many times
that you forgot how to come down.
An addict turned into a drug,
creating literally a dope art,
even if it's ironically about recovery.
But the only difference is that now you are your own god.
While your bible is a dictionary,
which kinda looks like another addiction to me.
And once you felt it,
you just can't help it,
'cause you're an addict,
master of intellectual lust,
brain ******* graphomaniac,
skilled to cerebrally *******
till reaching an intellectual ******.
You’re trained to write till the pain in your brain.
I do get that too, yes.
But I'd rather have *** till the pain in my ***.
You don't enjoy your life.
That's why you try to hide behind your stupid rhymes.
When you are really happy,
you don't need any words to heal.
Misery begets more misery.
But how come your pain brings speechless love that I feel?
It's a **** mystery.
Do you wanna be loved now or remembered forever?
You bully yourself to stay hungry.
Man, I think about you 24/7,
spitting rhymes
to feed my libido, be in love,
stay inspired 100%, and
believe that I can live now and survive later,
as I'm overinspired by my love for you.
I'm not sure if I want to be always this honest.
Do you want me to?
Would you take a leap of faith in my truth
rather than inspire hope?
I ******* doubt it.
You did your best to get into my head,
my jam-tomorrow dope.
Now you can't get out and
act like you don't give a **** about it.
You made me fall in love with you,
popped up in my heart out of the blue.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
I'm high on you, feel like I am in heaven,
like I've never felt better,
not in this life, I haven't.
Though, a massive crash of the system is the side effect
of a major crush on you.
How the hell did that happen?
I wish it were just a squish,
for I don't wanna be a part of your harem,
like you got no one better to do or destroy.
Oy oy oy, my bad, are you a nice, coy boy.
That's how it must feel to be the victim of a marketing ploy,
advertisement subterfuge.
But the toll we all have to pay
as consumers, trapped by an artificial but appealing rap decoy,
sometimes seems to be too huge.
You know, it's quite a toil
to use a troll as a *** toy
instead of a ***** or a *****,
‘cause sooner or later, you get annoyed.
Nonetheless, the neurons, connected with you, in my head are so ******* fat.
I can't get rid of them just like that,
‘cause I lost my heart to you
‘n’ am wasted on yo’ bars.
You are amazing, dude.
I’m so, so crazy about you.
My universe is you.
Well, *******! Now, what am I supposed to do?
The impossible
You can't force a person to see the world through your eyes,
nor is it possible to explain or describe
a three-dimensional feeling by means of words
unless your listener is familiar with it, of course.
But it sounds as if you are killing
it like a boss,
making a mess of thoughts
I can relate to, 'cause
mine are similar, but yours are worse,
spectacular, but also ghastly, disgusting, crass, and gross.
Like grass, your **** grows and attracts flies and crows.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms,
bananas verbose neurosis,
but also awesome and so virtuoso.
Verbiage, verboseness, verbosity, verbosis
to show all the ******* who here the boss is,
rhyming circumlocution,
the freedom-of-speech revolution,
pleonasm,
the pleasant to ears associative redundancy of a word chasm.
It tastes so good,
even if it's a rhymeless wormy orange fruit
with a surreptitious core
I wouldn't risk foraging for food,
‘cause it looks suspicious, like a cute *****,
though, delicious till the very last bite
of the canned worm pie
on a golden wordish dish
with a red hot cherry on top that charms
as usual with the illusion of being in your right mind
and having the might to drop the mic
to paralyze and reward you with a cerebral ******.
And those bozos
who don't get it can **** your *****
and buzz off, morons.
Right? Just drop dead and permanently get lost.
I guess with this, you're blessed and cursed,
cursed to make crosswords out of curse words,
cursed to swear, spitting rhyming slurs,
hurting others feelings with your screaming street slim slam poetry about how Shady did it,
hidden in your diabolically crazy schemes,
arising from infuriating poverty,
just ‘cause that's how real this **** feels.
Well, duh. That hurts.
I didn't realize it at first.
Now I admire that you don't get tired
of trying to describe it,
Although inspiring,
it can be hard and unfulfilling,
but you're a fighter.
Rap god, living in us, you are one of us,
Houdini in a hoodie, who disappears whenever he wants,
hides under the hood, behind the bars.
It looks like we're on the same page.
I'm full of fierce rage, you're on the rampage.
You use your finesse to impress
for the sake of success.
Chasing perfection, neither can I finish writing this verse,
nor return the gift and close Pandora's box,
a perplexing, puzzling paradox.
I gave up. I can't stop
I'm in deep funky ****,
literally drowning in it,
taken, smitten. I'm ******
and ****** up.
It seems to be as long as my life
with no dead ends and a deadline in the end of life,
a fantastic dream within a dream I'm in,
the life into which my soul comes like into making love
to die after ****** with an eternally grateful smile,
as if I'm sentenced to doing my time
writing sentences and lines in rhyme for life.
I don't wanna do anything else.
Do I have to? Who cares?
The limit is the sky.
Why do I pursue unreachable perfection? I don't know.
Why were we born?
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Oh my, am I too high?
If not, am I creating a masterpiece or slowly losing my mind?
Am I like the butterfly that flies too close to the fire?
Why is it writing itself? What is this?
What the **** is this?
Can anyone explain it to me, please?
The prose of life with an empty purse
and pockets isn't my purpose.
Why the **** does it seem then
that the process of writing this verse is?
I'm inspired by everything at this point.
Every word is a potential trigger.
All I need is to pull it as quickly as possible.
Like literally, I hear a word,
and bam! My head is about to explode.
Oh, no! Try to calm down, meditate. Doesn't work.
Should I meditate a bit more?
Yeah, sure. Why not?
Uh-oh, here we go again.
And I start to elaborate on the word that I've heard before,
turning it into the flow of rhyming thoughts
to the rhythm of my heart,
writing several verses at once
in different tongues,
both not quite civil, though.
I feel like I'm a walking poetry,
even better, a living controversy,
or an unstoppable stupid-genius oxymoron.
In fact, I've already gotten so high
that it looks like I'mma leave this planet far behind.
See, it sounds as if I was kidnapped,
taken roughly, while subliminally
without preliminary tenderness or warnings,
like a precious princess
with a priceless soul of a dainty deity
and a diety dandy one-million-dollars-price silicone ***
by some kind of madness,
possessed by the destiny of a goddess and a demoness,
since I didn't start this emotional dance of the sense
from the cognitive mess
of the chaotic subconsciousness,
I think I can control more or less,
on purpose.
It was a coincidence,
like self-awareness,
for I am now the feeling,
one, alone,
at the same time, not at home.
There is, in fact, no me at all
or no meaning for all
beside the one that has found you.
It's your life, where you are free to move on.
I call it destiny.
Well, then let it be.
And who doesn't agree
can kiss the goddess’s *** for free.
You get the gist?
Please, don't resist the culmination of my made-up friendship,
I insist.
Sorry, I don't know why, but I just need this.
We are together in this sensation
that stubbornly persists to exist.
Accept the respect of a crazy fan and a frenzy friend at least,
the affection of a hungry hunter, my beautiful beast.
Daydream
It's time to overcome my fear of you to disappear.
Your music flows already in my blood,
like a virus or a drug.
The ***** voice I hear,
your witty tongue, caressing, kissing, penetrating my ear,
touches my heart.
The devouring power
grabs my soul and drags it to the black hole of art,
the void of desire
that unavoidably draws a butterfly to the fire.
What a cruel life satire!
It's so **** beautiful
and looks as though
I'm literally about to see god,
even though I know I'm not.
I'm not that dumb,
just dumb enough
to think I am too smart for that.
I hope I won't lose my religion and not starting to write a new bible,
'cause what you sing and write,
it feels so right,
an enlightening bright ray of light at night
in your every single new album.
But it sounds like you pay for this with your excruciating pain.
It comes to my head, screws my brain,
turns me on, and again,
rapes my mind.
You play me like a guitar.
In other words, I might say,
I love the way you sound,
like a little, fascinating, too loud bird
in love, inspired in spring in the forest,
with a mellifluous voice,
who repeats again and again the same chorus
after a snappy verse with melodramatic words
and sings for the moment
of love that lasts as long as the bird’s song flows.
You don't want it to stop with the arousing desire to seize it, capture, shoot or record.
God, would I give it all to you,
if I were this kind of bird too.
However, the bird also yells a lot, spits, swears, *****, and mocks.
******* mockingbirds! They are the worst.
While I seem to express a meaningful feeling.
I mean, for some reason, it's very fulfilling
like a beautiful windy dance of a sense
and an emotion in energy motion.
Still got a lot to stay severe about? So what?
There is no time.
You are now here with me, my funny, blue, serene forget-me-not.
With you, I feel no fear.
It sounds surreal, so weird, yet so astoundingly sincere.
Though in no way do I wanna hinder, or interfere.
I'm here, near you, I'm yours
in my daydream that feels so real,
so clear, so dear, so close.
Close the door, turn off your mind.
I will be soft and kind.
I give you my word.
Take off your clothes,
your flesh and bones,
expose your whole soul,
lose yourself in my world.
Come here. Calm down.
You are with me now.
I can't fake it
when I see you vulnerable and naked,
because being with you in the buff
makes me feel that I'm in love.
The ice, baby, break it.
Find yourself in the sea of my eyes, take it.
Here me out, acknowledge me, my god.
I want to be your peer without a doubt
or any intermediaries except one love,
that's free from a logical dualism between us.
I'm also standing on the stage, although behind the scenes,
and persevering in
expressing myself in this verse.
Can I impress you like you impress me? Just curious,
reluctant to confess to a tempting attempt to sin.
I think it's innocent but serious,
the best delirious experience
I've ever felt with you within,
inside my mind, under my skin,
between reality and a 3D dramatic dream.
I mean you and me in
my strong magnetic parallel Universe.
Or is it just a wrong, too long, pretentious pseudo-song that makes me furious?
I guess I'm not talented enough to be brief.
Not even close.
On the other hand, I prefer my ****** to never end
and to spread the ecstatic light of my love as far as possible.
My thoughts are just too concentrated into one sharp point or a sticky, thick ball.
They have to be diluted with water
to be baked as waffles.
In addition, God opened my skull
and made scrambled eggs of my brains
to be served on a silver plate with trifles.
What a savory course, delectable meal,
too enlightening, delightful, and intellectual even for me
to be cooked, gulped, and pooped into a gold bowl.
Being an amazing, captivating puzzle
and attractive word construction,
it can bewilder and bedazzle,
bamboozle, distract from the world destruction
which is pretty scary,
like a bad dream,
a realistic nightmare, worth hiding from in a daydream.
So I cling to this verse not to forget it
so that I don't have to feel sorry for myself later and ******* regret it.
Follow the white rabbit.
Do you get it?
Neo, take the right pill.
Be the creator of your own reality inside the matrix,
because you know that in the other reality is the other you.
Switch your attitude,
shift your mood.
Paradoxically as it may sound,
to stay adequate in this reality,
you gotta get higher,
go beyond its boundaries,
see it from outside for a while,
reach for the opposite extreme
and feel grateful for the opportunity
to increase the potential for further growth
and follow your dream.
Lose your mind for some time,
as if you are madly in love,
eager to give yourself to this feeling completely.
It's also fine to be in a surprised state of mind,
like when through humor or inappropriate ******,
you are freed, shocked, flashed, or mooned by someone just for fun.
Overcome the fear of leaving your comfort zone.
Lose yourself, but not for too long and too far
lest you get used to the new way of existence.
Keep the balanced distance
so that you could come back
before you forget how to be found.
You're allowed to do crazy things in your dreams as opposed to reality,
'cause you're basically unconscious,
I suppose, to get the full access to the freedom of will for your avatar,
when you are free from the system of rationality
and don't even notice being surrounded by nonsense.
When I OD on my dream, it engulfs me
and I become its slave.
But I can't bear the unbearable spirituality,
the thrill, filling my brain,
blowing my mind,
bearing me out of reality,
as if I'm inside and outside at the same time.
Just so you know, well, you know,
it has the power to burn, devour, and wipe you off the face of the Earth.
The mechanics is quite obvious.
When you overdose, the system registers errors
and the crash of your overwhelmed brain that can't keep pace with your thoughts.
It activates the programs of negative hormones to make you feel bad
so that you know that your good doesn't work.
So when you feel too good, it's bad,
'cause having fell over the brink,
you may think you're still on board.
Yet you find the opposite extreme
of life, which is the state of affect, in fact.
And you're toast. That's all.
Man, you can talk about this state of consciousness,
being in another one, as much as you want.
But all your words will stop making any sense,
as soon as you return to the first one.
So don't rock the boat.
At some point, you'll lose control.
This dope makes you, dupe, say "smart" stuff.
But every time, you, wise guy, somehow turn out to be Captain Obvious
with a perpetual motion machine, unstoppable engine in his ***.
And you present the obvious as the truth,
simply ingenious for you.
Yeah, sometimes I come up with smart things.
Well, they are not that smart, to be honest.
Also, being too smart in a stupid place can be pretty lonely.
So I find the right words to feel comfortable in this inhospitable world,
apparently ruled by idiocracy,
pluck them right out of my dreams so I can grow
out of mundane mediocrity.
When you treat reality as a dream, though,
who enjoys all the freedom?
And what if he wakes up?
Will he remember it to read it?
Like he'd ever have any sentiments
for this epic monument to his character and his feeling.
Reality is relative, conditional.
It’s real only on condition that you take it seriously.
Are there other realities?
Do they really exist?
Any alternative reality proves that this one isn’t real.
And when you are in an alternate reality, you feel this.
Does it set you free?
There are many realities. Love is one.
Don’t forget to have fun.
Baby steps
It's full of deceptively smart, discombobulating, bombastic aphorisms, idiotic idioms,
Sancho Panza's *** wisdom, mind-puzzling tongue twisters, corny metaphors,
oversatiated with the false force
of never satisfying rhyming words anyway.
I'll eventually throw it away someday.
But not now, no. I won't leave it alone.
I'm not ready to let it go.
Although I know I am being greedy,
and I agree, duh, I do need it,
I am still thrilled to read it.
I don't want to part with it,
as if it is a part of me, and I'm a part of it.
This rough, raw draft is like a flimsy raft in the sea,
that goes with the flow to stay afloat.
Yet, simultaneously,
I definitely gotta direct it somehow to where I need it to be,
approach the destination of my destiny,
where desperation’s unknown
in the dead silent pause
before the deafening squall of applause.
But now it's still a crass lump of sugar, slowly melting,
being imminently washed away by water in raccoon's paws,
slipping through fingers words,
filled with the meaning,
leaving me with an inexplicable feeling,
the majestic, magical sense in the system of the pure mind, filled with glow,
a precious stone, almost stolen by a crow,
I enjoy watching.
But looking closer, one may notice
it's just a useless piece of coarse glass,
dirt, scooped up from the bottom of my soul.
I literally litter literarily,
drastically sarcastically spiritually,
a poet, obsessed with my own poem,
sick freak, losing my mind for a moment,
overachieving geek, falling in love for the first time
from the first sight with the first lines.
It could be called poetic, if not intimidating.
It's unforgivable. Can I forget it?
Maybe, not to be too crude straight away,
I should consider baby steps and gently start the process,
at least, with words first, let's say…
"Will you kindly ***** up your courage and hold it together?
What is the matter with you?
Are you insane?
******* ******,
it's not funny, nor is it funky.
Bite the bullet.
Stop it, stupid. Wake up,
star-struck dumb ****,
messy, ***** missy,
*****.
Get real, naive dreamer.
Just lose it, change the ******* music,
deluded miserable loser!
It's hard to grow up. So what?
**** it up.
Face it, ******* ****.
Cope with it, stupid ****.
Just so you know, this mediocre ******* doesn't mean anything to me.
I don't give a ****, *****.
Toss it to the garbage.
To my mind, it's so disturbing, makes me cringe.
Stop wasting your time, acting like a system's glitch.
What, you stupid?
I'm putting my foot down, lousy clown,
******* ****** ***** *****.
Let it go or get lost in your god
and leave me alone."
"Well, if you say so…
On second thought, no, I won't.
Respectfully, I disagree.
You want a piece of me?
What, you smart?
Uh-uh, shush, do not interrupt.
It's my turn now, I'm talking. Zip it.
I have a piece of advice for you too.
How about you shut up and eat me.
Now I suppose I got beef with you.
Is that what you want? *****, please.
What is the matter with ME?
Are you for real?
So much for the champion of morality.
Good God, what's the big deal?
You have got to be kidding me.
Or are you really some kind of ******, *****, or a imbecile?
And who the **** are you to judge me?
What the hell is wrong with YOU?
What are you ******* about?
Why do you care for preaching,
when you don't even like to teach?
Must be some kind of breach, though.
If you feel so estranged from me,
why don't you build a bridge and get over it?
In any case, I don't need a teacher.
I'll learn on my own.
Should you still gonna teach me,
trying to beat me with the heavy artillery of a tough rhyme,
can I have this class on advanced rap really fast?
'Cause I don't wanna lose my time.
Otherwise, if I do, I'll make you go through some tough times,
'cause this time you'll have to deal with MY really rough rhymes.
And if you absolutely need to know,
I’m not insane. I’m in love.
Yeah, I know you think it's the same, but it's not.
So knock it off, *****, enough.
Shut your stupid big mouth and *******.
***** you, tactless, unthankful, insensitive fool.
Oh, yeah, sure. Now you're so mature.
Cut me some slack, judgmental prima donna.
Without me, you'll be lonely.
Just so you know,
I'd be cool without your concern, yeah,
and your pathetic rebuke.
I make you cringe?
You make me puke,
'cause you're getting my goat now.
And in my humble opinion, **** your opinion.
It's not even critical.
You're just being mean,
too subjective, basic, and hypocritical.
So take it back, or you'll regret,
'cause I'd be glad to shove it into your throat
to finally shut your ******* piehole.
On the other hand, thank you for your opinion.
I'll take it along with my own
and gracefully balance between them.
FYI, you can only pry this verse out of the dead grip of my corpse, dumb *****.
Bite me and thanks a bunch,
******* very much for your ******* questionable,
supposedly encouraging, rather enraging,
arguable, pep talk, so-called "motivational"speech.
Go to hell and **** yourself,
get lost before you bite the dust,
gut-wrenching leech.
I'll make you put your ******* foot
in your filthy mouth
and won't let you take it out,
hold it till you swallow your own *****.
How does that sound?
I'm through with people telling me what to do.
So go take a flying **** at a rolling donut.
I'm standing my ground.
If after all this, you still think that you won,
you must be a ******, believe it or not.
Well, you may believe whatever you want.
Let me be honest with you.
I'd like to enlighten you too.
I don't even need to prove you wrong,
‘cause that's what you prolly already know on your own,
though only subliminally,
since you are the one
who still wants to say something to me.
To my mind, you are out of your mind,
'cause it's not only yours, it's also mine.
If you don't see me any longer,
so long then.
In my god, I'm dissolving."
Ok, that's it. I'd better get over with this ironic moronic controversial converse,
steeped in speculations, exaggerations, and, possibly, false accusations.
I'm done talking to me and myself,
don't know how else it's supposed to be said.
All I know is it's not supposed to be sad.
It's supposed to be fun.
Fake poet
So **** being normal.
I, too, want to get through the time portal to become immortal alright.
Though, be careful what you wish for, right?
I don't like to hurt people's feelings,
but I'm tired of casting pearls before swine.
It's venial for an artist to love his ego because he loves his art,
created by his personality which he also sees as a work of art, while
an author has to love his character so that the character should be alive.
That's why you create your alter ego as your best friend in your own image.
And since the observer can't be observed,
like the feeling, owning you, can't be analyzed,
this way through co-creation, you talk with God.
****, that's ******* high Sci-Fi.)
Well, all artists are ****** up.
So welcome to the club,
home for talented human beings
with the divine energy inside
so you could imagine that you could see yourself from afar.
Yeah, I probly need a shrink, but I can't afford it.
And you know what? I think I actually don't even want it.
I'd like to be among contented people,
people, interested in me,
loving me for who I am,
not for who they want me to be.
There are, however, no normal people on this planet,
'cause no one can be objective, being enthralled,
lost in an enslaving illusion, and this is normal, but at the cost
of critical thinking, common sense logic, of course.
Nor there's, unfortunately, any other mental institution, big enough for everyone.
Thus, paradoxically, it becomes normal
to lose marbles and get bonkers,
not to hear each other,
wearing space-suits of personal bodies.
At least we can have some fun
one way or another.
So there's no use of judging anyone
except for yourself, to whom you always have so much to say.
OK, I'll hold on to it for a while, let it stay
till this bunch of stupid words still makes my day, makes me smile,
also excited and even ecstatic,
because I'm probably an immature amateur and a frantic fanatic
quickly crossing the line without brakes,
'cause something's wrong with my brains,
overwhelmed with feelings spilling into words,
losing sight of the point of no return
or only pretending to be frenetic to look more charismatic,
merely playing the leading role of my own show,
at the same time, enjoying it, sitting in the front row,
covering the existential horror
of being engulfed by a disappearing feeling
with trash in my mind, waste of my animal soul,
hiding from problems, irreversible losses,
remorse, and sorrow behind my poems,
'cause, to be honest, it's frighteningly a lot to swallow.
At least, I have the strength to admit that I'm weak.
You, too, know it.
I may be a failed philosopher, artist depicting himself, if you will,
a fake, dead poet,
who, gazing in jaw-dropping amazement at the scary beauty
from the mysterious extraterrestrial tree of poetry
through spiritual ******'s eyes,
meditatively observes peacefully gliding swallows
and whizzing, gleefully squealing like little monkeys, weightless swifts,
deflecting thoughts from the constant, ruthless struggle for survival,
striving for life, fight for the right to exist.
I always notice these little joyous moments I can't let go of,
charming moments of bliss.
I try to capture them in persuasive, virtual words,
a recursive parody of fractals, shiny kaleidoscopic gems
of shattered glass, alas, to no avail,
catch the evasive, lucidly illusive, evanescent sense,
hidden behind the veil
or resurrect the piercing, genuine, ephemeral feeling,
recreate it as if I can remember it, while it always keeps saying farewell,
leaving me confusing cause with consequence,
perplexing reflexing, which coincidentally helped once survive
and became a perpetual part of a limited by it, endlessly enigmatic life.
It can make you stronger, traumatize you as well,
'cause it's as fast as pulling a trigger to exchange paradise for hell.
When I was a kid, I used to collect beautiful feathers,
as symbols of freedom,
dreaming of building wings
to fly to the star by the name of Sun
and see the world from afar one day.
Growing up, I'm collecting enchanting words
in the hope that I'll find the way to create a magical spell,
as if I'm afraid to lose the key from the lock on the door,
behind which there's the whole new world
I’ve never seen before.
Any professional manifestator was an amateur dreamer in the beginning.
Well, you know.
Love free ****** humor
Yeah, no ****, you don't say! I can tell.
I seem to be so wise sometimes.
Being kinda kind, I am not wise or nice,
but when people see it in my eyes,
I don't mind also being polite
and lie, as I simply like to look likewise,
hiding my passion inside.
Lie, thinking I'm telling the truth,
lie to myself and to you.
I know I'm not the brightest star in the night sky.
Ah, come on, don't try to prove me wrong.
Don't be stupid, I'm not that smart,
albeit a little offbeat.
I'm even not too smart to be a ****,
because I'm
a kindhearted person,
although a bit bothersome.
Well, how you like that?
Not bad for a horrendously cynical humorist.
And you know who a cynic really is?
As one of the greatest comedians said,
a cynic is a disappointed idealist.
At least I'm an honest hedonist
prone to fall in love with egoists,
being selfish myself.
It's so simple and obvious that it's ingenious.
Besides, there's nothing new under the sun, dude.
Only the way to express yourself, subdued by a convincing fleeting feeling,
trying to shoot for the moon, I assume. Feel it.
It's not an invention,
just a euphoric wide-eyed eureka sensation,
out of zero and one, pile of combinations
of notional and semantic hallucinations
due to the lack of meditation
in the infinite number of unique situations,
miracle-like lyrical elevation,
limitational imitation,
metaphorical *******,
sensational manipulation,
emotional liberation,
manifestational motivation,
pang of inspiration,
another recollection in your consciousness,
the figment of god's imagination,
spiritual *******
through brain stimulation
in the verbal life simulation,
Captain Obvious.
Nice choice of words,
looks like a can of worms.
Just a verbose neurosis, of course.
If not, I need a good doctor for the right diagnosis, I suppose,
in case I was misdiagnosed.
So stay out of my head.
Well, since you are already here,
don't stay in my head for too long.
I'm afraid you'll be drained,
'cause my graphomaniacal brain is insane.
Oh well, what the hell, yours is the same,
so I guess this is how a wordy-nerdy neurotic
makes love to his narcotic.
It's so poetically ******
for an oxymoronic, ironic neurotic,
trying to find the balance
between extremes in a sparkly dance
of a whimsical weasel, hopping in front of a rabbit,
distracted by hypnotizing patterns.
I must go higher than that
from the basement,
where I muss thoughts in my messy head,
like a neurotic tousles hair.
By the way, that would be me as well.
There, I admit I write, I'm a freak,
and I don't care.
Although you might want me to wear a disarming straitjacket
so I'd become a complete wacko,
be careful and gentle with me.
I can be too free and open-minded.
Mind it.
I mean, you have no idea what depths I can get into.
But most importantly, can I get out when I'm in, or do I even need to?
Though, I don't condone a ***** brain ****
that's gonna blow up with an aggressive verbal *****,
surfeited with angry testosterone.
Come on, man, at least, please, put on a ******.
Yeah, I'm a ***** funky ******,
sympathizing with a sly Mona Lisa's condescending, stranger's smile at first,
bursting into sinister, Homeric, hysterical laughter of an old friend after,
snaring you with a snarling, daring smile,
the product of a cynical life satire,
making you lose yourself without a trace.
Boy, I wish I could bear this unpunishable feeling
of wearing the grim, evil grin of a villain on my face.
I hope I'm allowed to laugh out loud
at everything, especially at myself.
Isn't that what humor is for?
Not just for laughing at others to feel better about yourself.
That's too shallow.
Life makes you get up to the next level,
cuz it ain’t getting any sweeter or fairer.
I feel in this self-irony, there is always real, iron me,
like real chocolate is bitter.
Yeah, I hate this fake sweet, milk, sugar ****.
The more bitter, the better.
In truth, humor is always dark, without sweetener
so that you can be free as a word
that may be harsh and sharp as a sword,
but also kind and soft as unconditional love of a strict mother,
which is the best reward for being hurt,
as if it's an award for being heard.
I don't care if you were surrounded by seductive witches,
bloodsucking *******, and other supernatural creatures
you have no love left for.
I guess, to love and be loved by your woman,
you both need to have the same sense of humor.
So now you wallow in your philophobia and hate love you can't get rid of
for your ex to see that you, too, are capable of misery.
Experienced as you might be,
you can't just **** it off.
It chases your graphomaniacal, necrophilic, cannibalic, diabolic kamikaze’s dead ***, regardless of your sins.
I get it. You don't like to look like a fool.
And love does make you feel stupid and look pretty foolish, for sure.
It turns you into a silly, paranoid idiot,
who smiles but can't let go of the thought
that he might need an antidote.
You feel dumbfounded, stupefied, surprised, and at the same time stressed,
as if you have a finger in your ***.
“Am I having a panic attack?
*******! What the ****?”
In addition, you get immediately addicted,
dependent, vulnerable, and sick, bro.
And this addiction causes a cognitive contradiction,
when you lose marbles behind your head's cogs.
How does it make you feel weak,
when it's supposed to make you strong?
Maybe the angle from which you look at it
is wrong?
Love doesn't have to weaken you
or necessarily be a disaster or a collision.
You can sound perfectly good in unison,
albeit not for long.
I, on the other hand, can't help following this awesome feeling.
I love being in love despite the fear of falling out and being left sore.
And I love you for the same thing I hate you for.
Adorned with gloating goat's horns,
a morose sulky-faced great poet and a grim rapper I adore
turns into the great Grim Reaper
that equalizes all divided by different gods people,
who are stuck in the holy ****** trinity of evil ill stupidity,
living on behalf of the golden calf,
dying in the name of love
for the sake of Jesus ******* Christ
or some other god. Right?
Whoopsie-daisy!
This is egregious, insulting, and crazy.
I'll be ****** or crucified by medieval evil people
if you don't shut me up fast!
Yeah, y’all throw your stones and torches,
pitchfork me and scorch me.
Burn the witch, dying for love and your sins,
who deserves your tortures.
The weaker *** is strong through love
and through its nature, makes its fortune.
Wait…
a minute.
Hold the horses, *******!
Are you really gonna burn me?
****, **** this planet!
Do I look like a strong, confident, **** woman,
who knows what she's doing?
I guess, it's best to be famous without showing your face,
‘cause as soon as people see your face,
they start chasing your ***
for multiple reasons,
such as:
for some people, for instance, some of my words may sound disgusting.
They just fear believing they're flabbergasted.
You don't wanna be one of them fools, trust me.
These things might be not simple
for understanding by the majority of people,
‘cause it's sorta absurd.
A judgmental Christian is an oxymoron.
Saint hypocrites.
What, am I too straightforward for ‘em?
Can pigs fly, though?
Are aristocrats poor?
Yeah, it sounds insolent, but it's true.
Sorry, I tend to be rude,
when you are being mean to me too.
I know that I know nothing
and no one can know everything.
But everyone can go **** themselves
and be self-sufficient.
Of that I'm sure.
Maybe we should shift the perspective,
find the right or better point of view,
and change the attitude?
The world is full of idiots. So what?
The world is full of idiots, old farts.
You don't want to be inside this farce.
But just in case, get ready to go nuts.
Even a guru can become a doddering fool, though.
Why is it like this? I don't know.
Because life is a joke?
So be grateful for this humorous energy, even when it's aimed at you.
Try not to be too indecently arrogant a genius
who has nothing else left to do
than to shoot himself,
'cause he's surrounded by ******* idiots and degenerates.
Thanks for support, your painful honesty of a bulldog,
the way you bogart the way to the fame you hate,
your boundless kindness, Your Highness
or Majesty, or should I say,
incredible, phenomenal, omnipotent, iconic rap god.
Why do you love to laugh at people's vices,
like a big fat hungry troll,
sitting with his smart ***
on the fence of a deep defense,
which is the best as a good offense.
Why can't you be as nice as, for instance, Jesus Christ, though, bro?
It's not that hard, after all
with your free mind, open wide so.
Aren't you tired of your own satire,
trying to satisfy your always hungry mind,
and being a king, constantly proving the right to the crown?
Now, look what you've done.
Why would you need to spoil all the fun, sad clown?
Because you are the smartest one?
You snipe with snarks as a snide snipe,
but like Wesley, precise,
till your enemy runs out of ammo, or it backfires
so hard that you wish you carried a gun,
like you used to.
That's a shame, you now have none.
A fire marshal without a firearm.
Good thing I got one.
Lucky me, I'm not you.
Thank God, I can't fill your shoes.
What are you still doing here, old man?
Dreaming of being a digital avatar,
while even the paper you use to write on is not digital?
If you were older, I'd call you an ancient dinosaur,
and you'd prolly own, instead of a Blackberry phone, a typing machine gun.
Aren't you a bit too old to troll solo?
Troll-lo-lo, it seems so trollop-like low,
bitter, pathetic, and shallow.
You troll when you feel bad.
And so you share,
trying to hurt someone to feel a bit better.
Instead, you're unaware of how it gets even deeper.
Don't get me wrong.
I hope you don't think I envy you.
With my bird-watching skills,
I coulda been an ornithologist by now,
just so you know.
If you don't wanna be alone,
baby, get down from your throne.
Or should you be higher than that,
well, then stay the **** god.
I wish I could help you, but you don't really want it,
and I cannot.
I guess I'm not a loser enough to be a hero
and unsolicitedly give you all I've got,
since, despite being overwhelmed with compassion,
I'm also full of ****, a spoiled, bad girl,
so empathetically selfish and special.
My body doesn't grow up anymore.
It can only grow old
until it's finally cold,
while my soul still keeps growing, though.
I feel my soul is already too big and too old for this world,
'cause it just doesn't fit into this *******.
Oh dear Lord, Holy Mother of good God,
how the **** can I say that?
I believe I can say whatever the hell I want.
Isn't that what we're supposed to have the freedom of speech for?
We need virtual evil
to keep the virtuous Utopia ideal
and find the balance between ‘em.
Boy, you, too, must be that impudent, testy, despicably obnoxious, squalid and perverse
to be worthy of your own words!
God almighty, have mercy on us, sinners.
See? We can be good.
Well, then, I guess, Jesus will just have to forgive us
providing, of course, we are truly sorry and true believers.
Since we halfway to be saved,
let's play, I'm bored.
Not board games, though.
My self-esteem is so low,
'cause it's too high.
Play me hard.
Roast me. Promise it will be awesome.
Torture me till I'm toast, or I find the way to blossom
through concrete like a stubborn ****.
**** me with your words and tear me apart.
Poke a ******, sacrifice her.
Bake me, burn me in hell for my sins, god,
set me on fire, lord of the words
that you learned from comics
to enhance your performance,
ignite my mind and heart
with your satisfying voice,
make me, be my ******* boss.
Hey, **!
Not with a pitchfork, though.
What the ****, bro?
Easy. Yo, chill, man, will ya?
Why did you bring that thing, huh?
What, you're Aquaman,
******* Poseidon?
For real? Ha-ha.
Seriously, what for?
Does it make you drown faster
or give you the superpower of niceness?
No?
Well, feel the kick and fly, then.
Ah, self-defense.
Okay, then, let's dance.
Come on, man, all jokes aside,
I could expect anything from you,
like a rifle, knife, or a sword.
Yet, you brought that?
I thought, most of all, you preferred a chainsaw.
****, so I guess now I can't expect you to be nice
to my wise ***. I'm ****** anywise.
And yo’ **** will be engulfed by all my holes.
Sorry for the ***** metaphor.
I'm straightforward like that,
pierce with a pen, mercilessly gore,
write honestly, like a *****.
Oh, well, as well as you, so
don't mind my cussing,
'cause I like to sound beautifully disgusting.
Well, you know.
I just love this lingo vocabulary, vernacular architecture of slang,
cuz I was raised among gangsters and thieves
in the country of sorrow and tears.
It probly sounds worse than it actually was
because the past is in the past,
and now it is what it is.
I believe all words are good and equal like us, people by default.
Yet, it's hard to be hot,
when the context is hostile and cold.
It’s not like the so-called “good” words are true,
and the “bad” ones are false,
as if it’s a war
of the words that you like
against those that you don’t.
So are they now a lie? Why?
Just because you think so?
But the truth is that often the truth is unpleasant to hear and to know.
See, these are the words you don’t like, though.
Everyone thinks according to the level of his sins.
Well, I don't give a **** what you think
regardless of whether it's right or wrong.
How can you, fools and hypocrites, limit art?
It's endlessly boundless in its variety, like God.
And there is no human mortality for God,
as the main art is life.
While your free will is limited by his plot,
it has no boundaries inside your mind.
I love each and every word I wrote,
like an ornithologist loves all the birds.
I love them all
equally in the context of my flow.
Word.
I'll show you why.
Check this out.
Here is the concept for y’all to trip on.
If the words are used, they are needed,
like the spectrum of all the feelings.
And if the words are needed, they are all equal.
Or you can pretend to be a xenophobic god
in your own fairy-tale sequel,
verbal Utopia, perfect world.
Well, I don't give a **** about censorship,
not gonna put up with some censurer's ****, God forbid.
I find censoring insensitive,
truth be told.
I wonder if there are utopias in any of the worlds,
and why everyone tries to drag you into their own.
I guess this **** is universal.
As for me, I think, Utopia might be possible
if everyone could eat their own ****.
Oh, if only everyone shat manna from heaven
and were happy with themselves forever.
So I use “bad” words in the right context and call it a joke.
I attire profanity in rhyme to refine the bad with the beauty of my mind.
And you can criticize it as much as you like, *******.
Guess what? I also don't give a **** about what you want,
especially if your sense of humor is at the level of an old ****.
What's the matter?
Too “kind” to notice the context behind the fence of the holy rightness,
‘cause, apparently, you are the best representatives of the whole humankind,
albeit a bit biased and blinded by righteous wrath towards “bad” words,
but always ready to save the rest of humanity with your perfect morality?
Should you take offense instead of a joke,
it's your problem and your fault
if you don't dare to be free and bold,
having got used to doing as you're told.
If all you can is mumble, stutter, and choke,
I'll only help you with pushing your *** down the stairs
and stare at you stumble over your throat and fall.
And I don't care if you're scared or hurt.
Who said life was fair?
You'll always be its *****, fool, and a scapegoat.
So whatcha gonna do about it?
Fight it with pen in hand for a pistol to release pent-up bile
(epistula non erubescit, right?)
or suppress your pain until it subsides
in the convenient, cozy kindness of self-justifying lies,
being frightened?
It must be exhausting to bear the burden of tears and fears
kept inside of you all those years.
**** ‘em. What's the worst that can happen?
Will your world have to endure the Armageddon
without deranged truth seekers, unhinged fairy tale believers?
Are you afraid of being burned in hell
or expelled from the league of imbeciles?
Drop the heavy load of guilt towards hypocritical sinners.
But if you can't face the apocalypse or find an argument,
don't start to argue, man,
lest you be trying to justify yourself again.
The devil lives in the details,
god in conceptual fairy tales
so that your life would look more meaningful and believable,
like a stand-up joke.
And if it's lethally funny, I'll laugh my *** off
till I have a heart attack or a stroke,
regardless of what you think, so no offense.
Take it easy before the converse stops making sense.
That's my truth.
It doesn't need to be proved
and doesn't have to be approved.
It's just my mindset, my worldview.
You can't be me. I can't be you.
Life is very funny if you have the ability to notice it.
Even after I die, my killing sense of humor will stay alive.
That's why we have immortal souls to laugh at our mortal bodies.
Yo, how come all the bad stuff is mostly fun?
'Cause humor is dark as death, equally for everyone?
And without evil, good is hard to understand?
It's actually the essence of humor to laugh at fools from afar
and not to get stuck with them in a joke, duh.
The truth is, no one among even the smartest people
is smart enough to outsmart the deadly, evilly funny Grim Reaper.
So I don't have to be a saint anymore.
Let me be your slave of love, so to speak,
your insanely in love, queen Margot.
Set me free from the fear of being lost, come along.
You will be my Woland and my Master.
Seize the moment as if you can hold it,
like it's a masterpiece manuscript and you can't burn it.
Stop time, just grasp it faster
as though you are a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat.
Like a reused ****** out of a rabbit hole, you pull off another last trick.
There's no magic in that.
Don't wanna be judgmental, but you're just a boastful monster and a slim slick,
good for nothing but a fling,
seen in a flick
on the big screen
in one hot, short love scene,
jerking me off as always, bag of *****.
*******, I feel the terminal stage of love still lasts, though.
Do you feel me?
I would sell my soul to you if it weren't priceless.
Oh, man, not again!
Yo, this ****** up love is a ******* disaster!
Goodbye kiss joke
I gotta turn the page before it's too late,
and unrequited love inevitably turns into savage hate,
before I'm ****** into rage and end up in the stage of a vicious rampage.
I don't want to stay in the cage of a malicious fake fate.
It's not like I will shout about my feelings at the top of my lungs,
"Oh, I'm gonna cry right now.
Listen to me, everyone!
That's it, I don't give a ****. I'm through with you! We're ******* done!"
**** your petty pity! I don't need it.
I should have gone away a long time ago before the **** hit the fan
and I got the loaded gun demanding more
from you than I think you can think of who you really are,
word master.
Cut the crap.
Don't give me that horsecrap rap trap *******,
priggish, perverted, impertinent *******.
I'm full of it.
Half of your art is about showing off your art,
you arrogant, swaggering braggart,
wacky soul-’n’-mind-******* ******,
self-absorbed wanksta-poet, superstar, demure poser
composing your mind,
careless about mine,
soul-exhibitionistic imposer.
If I may ask,
are you comfortable with your ******* in your ***?
I think, I'mma just bust a cap
and **** the King Kong with a big ****
who claims to be the god of rap,
destroy the crazy dopest goat,
the best representative of hip-hop,
my dreary Moby-*******-****,
stupid moon on a stick.
You don't own me,
'cause you don't know me,
you're not my homie,
and I don't owe you ****.
I'm not your groupie,
hanging on your huge, impossible-to-swallow ****,
who's so ******* lucky just to **** it.
Stop being so stupid,
big-headed, twisted ******* *****.
You don't deserve me. *******!
I don't wanna be your fan.
Sure thang.
You may think there can't be ex-fans of yours, like there are no ex-drug addicts.
Yeah, right. You wish. Why don't you write a song about it
to convince me again that you still can?
Can you, really?
I don't believe you.
I think you're lying. Are you?
As if people still require
your daring dire satire
with vile iron ire
and want to keep their eye on
your iron ginormous *****
too big for your pants.
Do they still write your words on the walls
and watch your wars
full of spite and wrath
till your last breath,
till life ***** you to death?
And the best part is, being ***** by it,
you have to take pleasure in it.
Real legends don't get old.
They burn fast like shooting stars.
You've had your chance and missed it, though,
having tried to compensate for it later
with the magnificent rehearsal.
Since no one was good enough to ****** you, so to speak,
**** you lyrically,
you did it yourself,
albeit just for fun.
What a shame.
Shady Jesus died once again,
like a cartoon character.
Or should I say, it is another Jesus Christ
as in, antichrist.
Or has Jesus Christ actually been killed twice?
Well, luckily, now I'm armed with a gun
and ready to do some serious harm,
even though it’s not a nuke or bazooka,
still dangerously good-looking
like a hot rod from God
or a bad, damaged ******.
Boy, are you stern and cold.
Thank God, not dead yet, though.
Seriously, man, can I offer my help,
immortalize and save your art
before it gets ugly so you could stay forever young?
Let me set you free.
‘Course, I know, you're not that old,
but definitely old enough to wear a beard
to show the whole **** world
that half of you has disappeared.
"A beard is a symbol of wisdom," I heard today from a passer-by.
And here you are again,
a dreamy boy with a beard, trimmed slim,
resembling a promiscuous, shady lady, wild jade, luscious *****, succulent vamp, **** *****
with a wise *** and an unshaved ******
with the price tag of an arm and a leg,
flashing noble knights in shining armor,
lascivious transgenders, grafs ****-you-offs,
all kinds of ****, ******* midgets and ***** dwarves.
They are just looking for some nookie with a ******, for sure,
a ***** they can treat like ****,
**** a hot dame for a dime.
And now that your dream came true,
and you are the ****,
they all can eat you and die.
Oh, well, it’s so **** nice.
To minx or not to minx?
I guess, it's not for you to decide.
Boy, you must be such a wise guy.
Why?
Is your self-esteem extremely high?
No limits, huh?
What, you a god?
Duh.
Big deal, *****, so am I.
Ha-ha. See how you crack me up?
God, are you so funny and smart,
just walk and emit laughing but lethally poisonous gas,
cracking out of your cranky wise ***.
Dude, you are hilarious
and obviously wise enough to improvise with the smartest smart-*** rhymes in yo' freestyle,
the best emcee so everyone can see
the master of controversy,
the main character and the actor in one,
a white-trash rapper, American dream *******,
who can use rap as a gun.
But that's not all.
The tip of the iceberg.
I'm just saying it to you in case you didn't know.
Yeah, all women like to laugh at men's stupid, obscene jokes, spiced with ******* slurs
till they don't even notice how they're being laid already and treated as they all deserve, as ******* ******* hos.
By the way, grandpa, how's your sight, sugar level, and blood pressure?
Must be not that bad, since you eat beets.
Sure, you’re still the greatest of old time, my precious.
You are getting darker than the eclipse
and brighter than the sun.
Don't burn me, falling in agony, please.
You look so lonely, 'cause you are the only one.
Wow, are you on fire!
Shoot! Sweet rap messiah, you're not dying, are ya?
Unless maybe just the hair
that used to be blond, now brunette.
What’s up with that?
At least you are not bald or grey-haired.
Man, even your abdomen's still impressive
for someone who used to be obese,
well, in fact, maybe just a little bit fat,
when you meditated and self-medicated your body with mom's spaghetti,
while being a depressed mess.
So you must have done hundreds of sets of fifty press reps,
reciting yo' baddest raps
mind-blowingly fast,
pretending to be a badass
so you could run thousands of eighth miles
in his shoes to look like you look now.
Sorry for my straightforward poetry.
But that's what I love to do the most,
although sometimes I can't control it,
the mean, itchy urge to troll someone.
I know, I act like an immature clown.
What you gonna do?
You gotta slay the dragon once in a while.
I believe I can **** the troll in me,
occasionally controlling me.
Unfortunately, the irony with killing a troll is that after you **** it, you become one.
So it's best not to even start to say anything to him in the first place
if you don't want this outcome.
Besides, words are often useless.
If he's too annoying, just kick him in the nuts.
They’ll blow up, and he's gone.
Well, what you know?
I guess, Shady is in everyone,
like God lives in us
along with our angels and demons,
a lost soul of a prodigal son,
created and forsaken by the Father
in the name of the Holy Spirit
for him to be found and saved by himself in the idea,
made up for believing.
Thus, two become one,
I mean two in one,
one, embedded into the other one,
forming a holy *******.
Amen.
I mean it.
And I'm in, too.
Wait. Why am I in it?
Love the game?
Why are we doing this, again?
Right, 'cause we have no choice.
Or I just like to think so.
And it's all your fault, my friend.
Yes, it is.
I cannot blame myself for your sins.
But I don't mind forgiving me mine.
Since the sinner is you, I am a sinner too.
So **** this! As you are one of a kind,
here is one last goodbye kiss on your soft lips.
Now, baby, please, get down on your knees,
beg for mercy, pray to spare your life
or kiss your *** goodbye,
'cause I won't miss you, reminisce about you,
feel guilty for this innocent crime inside my criminal mind.
And in case of being arrested and indicated,
I'll plead the fifth and be just fine.
So have a nice rest (spoiler: five minutes left) of your life,
then say hello to my poetry,
and rest in peace in the hell of poetry, rappers’ paradise.
Man, I don't wanna dis you,
but since you kinda want this, I think,
I promise the last thing you'll see
will be me, writing here my thoughts of you, spitting a rhyme.
How can I possibly be responsible for a person I don't even know?
I don't believe I'm supposed to be. Why should I?
Calm down, diddums.
What's the matter?
You don't like to be dissed?
Well, then, I hope you didn't read
about this ugly thing I just did.
But if you did, do tell me more about this.
All jokes aside, don't be mad at me, please.
You know I don't really jeer, just cheerfully tease.
Consider it my dissertation on the dark shady matter,
not sophisticated enough, maybe
to be philosophically labelled.
Will it stop you from spitting out your truth?
I'm sure you'll say no, won't you?
I thought so. I know it. I want you to be brutally true.
That's what I love about you.
I get that, I do.
You noodle, scribble and doodle, complain, skedaddle from your pain
to replace it with people's wheedling fondles, cuddles, canoodles
to feel worthy of their love again,
being just a crying for help, desperate for love *****,
sharing with them your diseases.
And this drug is stronger, niggler.
It's worse 'cause it works without words.
Too much?
Yeah, well, I'm a natural. Thanks a bunch.
Calm down.
Will you relax, please? Jesus!
Even though you're a ******* **,
there is nothing to be ashamed of.
There's nothing wrong
in being a holy-mother-of-god-ly horrifying *****.
Yo, **, **, **,
immoral *******' horror.
But why the **** do you still need this?
Can't grow up?
Aw, poor thing.
The more approval from people and awards you get,
the more you want,
'cause it doesn't really give you anything,
can't fill your eternally hungry black hole,
greedy *****,
full of yourself, but still hungry.
Yeah, you go and hate that *****, fight it,
'cause you can't satisfy it.
Now, I know it's not yo' fault
that you were born in this horrible world
with initial talents and sins in your genes, inherited from your parents,
as you know, the **** just can't fall far from the *** according to the physics laws.
While you are still a whining sinner,
pretending to be a winner,
drowning in the sea of guilty conscience,
justifying yourself with words,
cuz you can't swim in it,
going down on a sinking boat.
So now all that's left for you is to stand up for yourself and become your own god
who was so depressed because of being alone
that he created the whole world to feel love.
And you may call yourself a serial killer,
but you are not even a real sinner
if you still cannot
nail or crucify your god.
Dang!
See ya in hell.
Bang!
Booyaka! The *******'s killed by his ******* nuts stalker.
The Grim Reaper's buried under the tree of poetry,
which has grown right through this poem, his tombstone.
We'll see what I can reap out of this rap goats’ cemetery,
except for what I've already been bestowed upon
and, in fact, have sown.
Life's a short road from your mother's womb to the graveyard tomb anyway.
*******, I’ll prob’ly just end up lis’ning to yo’ hip-hop again.
Ah, whatever.
I've already sewn the whole reality out of trivialities
and wove the underwear out of clichés for you to wear on the stage.
Don't wanna wear it?
Really? All right.
What's the matter?
Stage fright?
Just kidding.
I know you can make a fool of yourself
and (smile) laugh your *** off on the inside.
Shoot!
Here comes the lunatic’s cadaver.
Don't worry, I'll resurrect you
after you've got dissected.
Abracadabra.
See? It wasn't that bad.
You're not really dead,
like your mom or your dad.
I kid. Come on.
Nor are you really resurrected.
Ok, I won't dramatize, or I may get traumatized.
I gotta stop, lest I be found dead in bed in my own house,
stabbed to death with your **** in my mouth.
My bad. I apologize.
Let's call it even
or love, even if it's evil.
I can sound not very nice at times.
I'm sorry if I was too honest,
sorry for all I've said before
and in advance,
for everything I'll say after.
You know I'll make it up to you. I promise.
My words will make you craftier and tougher
so that again I can unpurposely be *******
for stupidly not noticing when I am crude.
I'm not afraid of mistakes and difficulties.
At least, I'd like to think so.
What did you expect, though?
You are a rapper.
Every your fan is your potential hater,
hungry, greedy, disrespectful,
tired of waiting,
starting to love you, ready to hate you,
hatin’ lovin’ you.
Let's end it, step aside for a moment,
pretend that we can be normal
for some time,
that we are fine for now,
'cause it's pretty stressful to be obsessed.
So just in case, let's make it at least less intense
lest we get tired of too much offense.
We'd better go back to tender love
instead of rough, outrageous, brain-******-and-breaking ***.
Relax, I'm joking, not trynna shoot ya, **** ya, or choke ya.
Not really killing anyone here.
Just kidding, having some fun with you, dear.
****** fan
Though I don't wanna be attached to you
or infatuated about you
and afraid to admit that I crave for
and scared of being touched by you,
as you also deliver top-notch romance in your lyrics.
It turns me on and turns into limerence,
the obsessive incessant necessity to be loved,
‘cause I lacked it as a child,
forsaken by God.
Perhaps I'm just being infantile,
while not too childish,
cowardly to laugh at misery for real.
To laugh at the theater of the absurd from your soul,
you have to watch it, not play the role, after all.
I gotta get outta here,
forget this foolish nightmare,
pretending to be a sweet dream
where I'm tearing and bleeding
with my words versus yours
especially those that hurt the most.
It's just a preposterous verse
you can't stop reading,
artificial reality, imaginary multiverse
where I can feel real raw metaphors.
Nevertheless, it unfortunately deserves
to be called careless, embarrassing, and gross.
It drives me off the deep end course.
But it's also challenging, provocative, and bold,
though must be too controversial to be sold,
too deep, so deep that it’ll stay in me,
‘cause I'm writing my ******* bible,
have already written it, actually.
And the Bible is free.
Still, I prefer not to read about others’ victimized, martyrized sacrifices
and catch various contagious interpretations
of other sick strangers' interpretations,
except maybe innocent potential sinner's associations.
****, what a ****** fan I am!
Man, we don't have that much in common.
I'm not even a sports fan,
wearing Eminem's Jordans or jersey and boxing shorts as pajamas.
Being a shorty, I didn't make it to professional swimmers.
No biggie, neither are you a pro in basketball, after all.
You chose a different career.
And while you now want to make it disappear,
I don't have one.
Thank God, nor do I have children,
‘cause I don't need to be a parent, apparently.
So nothing to lose, everything to win.
If I ever make it to Michigan,
I'll probly just get lost amongst street artists and enlightened bums
to be saved by your alternative to MacDonald's,
which, of course, is not a real restaurant.
As I'm prone to wasting my time
when I'm in my head, my head in the sky,
for instance, taking pictures of dumpster squirrels,
fat like hamsters,
black and mean like ghetto gangsters,
fast like Detroit Tigers and Lions
who, thanks to you, beat the Yankees and Falcons.
And here comes the harsh truth.
I'm almost sure I'm number two
because I obviously come after you,
let alone there's always someone
claiming to be your number one fan.
Besides, I don't even listen to your old songs anymore.
And I actually haven't even listened to all your songs.
Unfortunately, I don't have enough time,
‘cause there are too many of them, and I am one. Also,
I've bought only one of your disks,
not even vinyl or a cassette, though it's mp3.
As for the rest, I downloaded them for free.
So no use of me.
I hope it won't make you poor, my dear.
Cinderella man, sorry for the worst form of disrespect
that an artist can expect from a fan,
for being broke enough to steal from you.
Of course, it's not an excuse.
If any consolation, at least I'm honest with you.
This is just the way I am.
No offense, no grudge.
I am not whatever you say I am.
You are.
So don't judge
not to be judged.
Don't worry. One day I will be your ex-fan
and (how do I put this? Ahem!)
you will be a fan of your own fan,
yeah, big time,
my number one fan,
the only one.
Meanwhile, I'll procrastinate, manifest, and meditate,
unable to end this ******* poem
or rather a rap novel
till I reach my aim,
my fantastic goal,
even if it's too big for a small girl like me.
After all, the fact that I own a smartphone only to write all day long
has been already frowned upon.
I've even been warned and given a word
that, if I weren't stealth enough and were dumb enough to be caught
with the phone in hand again, next time
it'd be taken by force without a warrant and smashed against the wall
for stealing my time.
Although I'm simply playing with words,
I know this kind of games can be dangerous.
I wouldn't exaggerate and imagine
that life was comic, if it weren't tragic,
unless you can prove that it's not true.
Well, I guess that is impossible to do.
It's not that I don't realize that my words are fraught with consequences.
Even so, I almost feel like nothing can hurt me now, and I'm gon’ live forever.
It sounds like sheer nonsense, nonetheless I do,
because at the most you will read this verse
when it’s perfect, or when you’re ready, I assume,
which will happen maybe…
uh, yeah, most definitely never,
or at least, you won't read all this any time soon
and won't say anything whatsoever.
So I'll keep playing my silent game either way,
pondering about pointless stuff to forever elaborate
on some stupid **** simultaneously,
making it look poignant and clever,
'cause even though I might be not good at, let's say, baking cakes or pies,
I do have a black belt in piling up rhymes.
In case you, however, deign to teach me some manners and whoop my ***,
spank me with your hard and heavy raps,
like I'm your bad girl, and you're my dad,
do it fast, if you must,
'cause my level by now is supposed to be advanced.
So good luck with that,
break a leg.
Oh, what the heck,
break the whole ******' neck.
Make me repent the sins of my pen
that inks more now about the future
than I think about the past.
Give me your masterpiece, please.
Show me your master class.
It sounds good, ain't it?
Feels good too, *******,
‘cause this kinda martial art matters,
especially when you know what to do with all this talent.
It should have become a cakewalk at some point, anyways.
Otherwise, what's the point, though, right?
I gotta raise the bar, writing catchphrases,
fire a metaphorical gun, shooting punch lines in your face
right between the eyes
blow your brains out,
scatter ‘em all over the place
and expand your mind,
entering outer space.
Now feel the silence in the gaps,
read between the lines,
find your peace there
for no more war.
RIP so I could reap what I sow.
Master peace to become a masterpiece.
And don't even try to rise from the dead, bruh, like eva.
(Although, it actually sounds a bit too smug,
because, like a "normal person",
I've written the whole poem behind your back.)
What can I say?
I just love to make people laugh
until they cry at the same time,
breaking their stereotypes.
****, you're gone.
A divine supernova bursts stark into a black-hole devil.
Evil love
‘Course, I know you’ll always be my master, but it’s okay,
‘cause masters also depend on their slaves.
I think you understand that there would be no you as you are now
without me and your fans.
When you make jokes to yourself in your songs,
aren't you glad when someone believes you and sings along?
Gods exist as long as we believe in 'em.
By the way, what's up with your fanatical bots?
Man, you know, I don't ******* like it
when your butthead bot-like fans cooking up their idol
out of themselves, insane impostors,
stupid rookies, a bunch of clowns with clone accounts,
pathetic imitators,
******* fakers,
******* impersonators,
poor sick dumb *******,
millions of ******* minions,
limitless hordes of tedious idiots,
boring unstoppable morons
seek for my attention and approval,
**** me off, and
at the same time make me laugh, 'cause
they keep mistaking me for one of them, your AA support group,
godforsaken flock, your army of lovers,
wrapped around your *******,
breathtaking, irresistible humdinger.
I think the only person that can save you from yourself is you.
Suppose I left you for good.
Can I really forget about you?
If only I could
dump devilishly evil love that's tough but feels so good,
so **** good that even bad.
A burning pleasure that hurts
with the sweetest pain I've ever felt.
So should you hurt me, do it gently,
as you still can do it,
I mean, are naturally good in bed, I bet.
Wait, man, not again!
Forget what I said.
That's not what I meant.
Sorry, my bad.
Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.
It's just a silly relapse.
It's not like I'm gonna sit on your face
or your lap
even in the context of rap.
I guess when you click with someone,
you can have this kind of fun.
That's okay.
But hey, let's not get carried away.
I'll keep doing my best to stay sober and sane till I collapse.
I’m so sorry for the innuendo.
Next time I'd better be more circumspect,
'cause it's probably inappropriate.
Should I take you for a friend, though?
You know, I prefer to believe I could pull that off
and refer to you as a friend
even if you were a ******* ****** or a ******.
Let's pretend that I'm your friend.
Would that be enough?
Anyhoo, it wasn't my intention
to make you feel any tension or unwanted passion.
It has nothing to do with you, man.
Don't take it to heart.
I'm crossing the line again,
take it too far.
You can't be that bad.
Satanically evil devil.
Diabolically saint Satan.
You combine cockiness with humility,
quality with stupidity.
It doesn't matter even if you say that
it feels so good to be bad.
I'm sure whatever you wish you could do should be said.
And it's not your job to solve other people's problems or suit
the expectations of a stranger you've never met.
Not to mention that you don't have to pay too much attention
to every nonsense and stupid ****
that comes from my sick *** head.
I reckon, while looking like a bad boy on the surface, you're a good guy inside
or at least a good-looking bad guy.
Neither can I lie like that.
C'mon, of course, I don't really want to sit on your face.
In my defense, I lie to myself and justify my words by saying I'm just a good writer.
So I'd rather sit on the fence,
fooling around.
Yeah, I don't really want ya.
You realize I'm just ******* with you, doncha?
Oh dear, but I'm afraid you'll notice that I'm a bad liar.
What the **** did you expect, man?
Every your hater is your latent, negative fan,
accepting the rules of the game,
trying to change them later
except for one: the love of hatin’ you.
They dis you but have to respect you,
‘cause deep down they are afraid of you.
They know they can't harm you more than you do.
No one can hit you harder than life already did
at the harshest spitter’s speed.
And you love your haters too,
'cause you feed on your enemies' energy.
A feud with your foes you treat like hoes with irreparable flaws is the fiery fuel for you.
They made you too.
You slam ‘em with your rhymes, hit ‘em with your bars
about slaughtering ‘em with a chainsaw and the whole range of guns.
You love them masochistic ******* hard,
like you've been loved by God.
What the hell were you thinking
when you wanted to become a rapper,
starting as a rising star of your future fans' local newspapers?
As if you don't know what's going on in the heads of your fans.
All they want is to be you, like you or with you, *******.
But you don’t even give a ****, do you?
Well, whad'ya know! I guess **** happens.
Sometimes you think you recognized someone
when, in fact, you took 'em for somebody else.
Even though, I ain't deny it,
I am a terrible liar, god awful at this.
Still, it was worth trying.
What choice do I have? I can't help it.
It's like a bad habit.
And you know they die hard.
So what?
In order to look more decent and less rude,
I'mma… keep lying
until it becomes true,
the dream of the reality reboot.
When I convincingly lie to myself,
I believe it, then in myself too.
While my mind screams, "Oh, hell no! I don't think so,"
my heart says,"**** yeah! I'm almost there."
Yeah, right, I know.
Again, I write like a *****,
incapable of controlling the ****** energy,
trolling her own insatiable libido.
Oh, Gee! **** this **** destructive love,
******* me over again,
demolishing everything on her way.
I can't feed her
or him, them.
I don't know anymore.
As if the absence of a name for a gender
can be compensated by a number.
In no way did I mean to be mean and delve into the devil dancing, dude.
I just like dancing.
And I don't wanna use my words as a weapon.
I'm not rapping.
Baby, I'm telling the truth!
I ******* love you.
I love ******* with you.
Too bad, this love is evil.
I feel like I fell in love
just for my heart to fall apart.
Besides, it sounds too good to be true
for an oxymoron,
a beautiful masochistic figure of speech for morons.
I'd better ditch this queening *****,
'cause it seems that all I do is try to forget you.
But do I really have to?
Even if I do, I'm not sure I can get over you.
****, you don't give a ****, though,
and still have no clue.
And I will never matter to you.
While I wouldn't kiss and tell,
I doubt that you'd even care
to notice my love, being in love with yourself,
such a ******* ******* child.
Well, all this beauty is for me then, not for you.
It's not that I want to bust a cap, rhyme, or a myth.
But how many women have you really been with?
I hate to admit that it must feel good to eat a forbidden fruit.
What if I ate this ******* apple?
Why an apple, by the way?
It could be a banana, for ****'s sake.
Whatever, it doesn't matter.
The point is it's a metaphor
for liberation from the paradise prison for apes,
who painfully grow up
to find out how to become a free from human morality god.
But if you can't handle your sins,
maybe, you don't deserve that.
After all, I am too responsible for adultery,
for I'm not only an animal, but also a self-aware adult human being.
What I can do
is pretend
that I should understand
how to push through
and move on till it seems I can finally forget you
to change, evolve, create and grow,
'cause I can't take it anymore.
I gotta dig in my feet
till I start digging it,
throw you out of my system,
lest you become too real, way too persistent,
get control over the hideous, insidious monster,
hiding inside my aching soul,
get rid of the bad habit of diving into the gaping hole
of ferocious fears of love turning destructive, feral, and fierce
when life is atrociously real,
feel free to recover from the past,
buried in time at last,
leave the weird, love, solipsistic symbiosis behind,
say goodbye to the human neurosis of being alive,
realize that I should open my eyes,
wake up and smell the roses
in a terrifyingly lucid dream I live in,
in the elusive present moment,
find life balance, hormonal harmony,
learn to turn suffering into pleasure while surviving,
go through the metamorphosis
from the cocoon of verbose neurosis
to a beautiful butterfly,
the free poetry that can fly
into the unborn future where it can thrive and die.
And if I need to escape reality again,
I hope I still will be able to find the way.
Despite all the **** happening in this world,
all these wars, travesty of life,
lurid farce, insane asylum,
senseless grotesque circus,
the theater of the absurd,
where things are not what they're called,
please, Love, don't let me go!
Even though I keep saying no,
I know you won't let me go.
And I'll give it all to you
lest I be lost like a wretched wreck, sad sack of ****
and disappear in my own misery.
So I guess I have no choice.
You don't understand anything in this world.
It's all right.
And laughter is a normal reaction to being overwhelmed with awe.
The thinking process is like ***,
and the ****** is like laughter
that happens after
you discover for the kabillionth time
that you are just a *******.
What a relief.
Again, Universe, thanks a lot for your support.
Now the pleasure is all mine.
When you look at yourself from afar
and laugh at your stupidity,
you free yourself from it,
release your ego,
and become a self-sufficient god,
who doesn't look for the meaning,
for he's already been found.
This world is magical, and you are magic and a magician.
To see it, just open your mind.
You must know by now,
as various fairy tales like life and comics show,
that while there's always a reason for evil,
the true power is love.
This verse is alive
This ****** verse grows like a red, hot rose
from a stinky dark mess that smells mighty bad, so gross.
Thorny, aggressive, *****.
Take a look. It's already bloomed.
One touch, It will sting your skin and nerves
as if it's poisonous.
As if the venom can spread to your brain,
while the sweet aroma crawls through your nose.
You inhale, you inspire.
Goat, you wanna devour the whole ******* flower,
‘cause it gives you the illusion of power.
You stand beside it, staring,
like a hungry cat at a sparrow,
hearing your soul sing and flood,
you think that you see yourself sink in the sea of blood;
In fact, you merely bleed into spring muddy streams and puddles.
Playing my heartstrings, you scream and squeeze the crimson rose even harder
and want some more than your usual dose,
‘cause it's outrageously beautiful and shamelessly pure,
as you can feel your blood dripping from its thorns.
Don't be so cruel,
fill me up with some more fuel.
You will be my first, I will be your last
to come from intellectual lust.
Do you feel my words make you mine?
Do you wanna know why?
That's because this verse is alive.
It eats you all and frees your mind.
In this moment is your entire life for you to sublime
and see your soul's growth.
There's a place for everyone
on the planet Earth
except for those who are being eaten.
So beat it not to be beaten,
if you are a little kitten.
The show must go on.
So be it.
One life has to end for the other one to be continued.
Or stay, 'cause I want you to feel me in ya
the way I think I see god in ya
and wanna feel you IN me.
While you choose what to eat,
nature digests us all into ****
to keep the balance, harmony in and out.
Or you'd rather it chews you and spit you out,
‘cause you are a bit too bitter of a candy bar,
wrapped in too sweet of a beet
that tastes like Jesus Christ’s feet so far?
Like you and I, this verse constantly changes and grows,
expands like the universe,
as if it wants to consume the whole world
and destroy the cosmos
where it came from,
drowning in self, unfolds
to reveal its true form.
Inexorable entropy relentlessly dissolves
in nonsensical chaos
of nauseous word *****,
lyric verbal diarrhea,
disintegrating into syllables, letters, stream of consciousness,
being caught by a flight of the thought of the flight of a thought,
hilarious convulsions of ridiculous subconscious mind flow.
When it stops, it will eventually die.
When you get too big,
there's no place for you left.
Eat the world.
Let it through.
Let it go.
Goodbye.
So if you read this,
it probably seems that
Schrödinger's cat is trapped in your head,
neither alive nor dead.
Although it's actually highly unlikely,
the fact that I might still be writing it
is, frankly speaking, quite frightening.
But also, in the process of growing, I'm enjoying my poem,
being obsessed with the idea of the illusion that I'm obsessed with the image of you,
the fantasy that embodies itself in the form of this verse in the virtual world,
searching for perfection in the night sky, lit by dead stars, reaching for the moon,
in time, to leave the space where I am now for the real one, and then one more.
This may actually become a masterpiece, as it already is, after the death of the author.
At the same time, it's possibly
one of the most narcissistic verses,
written by a presumably the most modest person,
that has ever existed in this world
and will stay in the history
as the distinctive but illusive evidence,
based on evasive traces,
a pale shadow,
the echo of the stars long gone.
It's a constant self-improvement work in progress,
tiresome sometimes, yes,
but a very interesting working process.
Whatever it is, it's for you to decide.
It's your choice, of course.
Is it, though?
For some reason, it always seems to be Sophie's choice.
So I guess it is what it is.
(By the way, it really is a masterpiece.)
But why on earth does it always have to be like this?
I don't know.
It isn't easy, is it?
It's easier to be decapitated by a mind-breaking wizard
than to choose between two ideally evil ideas or thoughts.
As if I'm a little girl,
born during a war,
and while hiding from the Soviet Union among the Vietcong,
killed by the American bomb.
Or should I pick a side
find a lesser evil? Why?
Not to die today? Escape endless wars
between heaven and earth?
Why two evils?
Do you have to always be
between the devil and the deep blue sea?
Why not funny and spiritual?
‘Cause I'd rather not pick either of two evils.
On the other hand, when I can't choose between two good things,
I tend to take both,
like two ***** in two holes.
**** sure happens.
You may appear in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And you can't do anything about it at first.
But then… Bam!
The bomb drops,
and you're gone. You die.
On the bright side, you are now free,
put out of your misery,
as if killed out of mercy.
So thank you, Universe, merci.
See? Your freedom of choice is in your attitude,
and you can always find something to be grateful for, of course.
To get enlightened, you have to go through darkness, after all,
to see that there is no good or bad,
only happy and miserable.
Don't make it worse.
The word owns you
Anyhow, it's almost dead already, too bad, too old,
too big, too bold,
still straightforward, piercing, and bitter
like one **** with two *****
that ****** you off
and makes you wanna **** it so hard
that it could finally die and go off.
Yeah, it's so sick.
I gotta put it out of its misery with a rusty shovel,
**** it out of mercy at some point.
I mean, no one can heal something so ill.
And what can't be healed,
has to be killed.
I hope you feel me, silly,
understand what I wrote.
It's not that difficult and obscure,
really,
still alive, while yet not cured.
Are you following my thought?
If you're not sure,
I assure you, you do.
You're just unsure if it's the right direction for you.
Don't take my art too literally.
You can break my heart if you want.
I don't care,
'cause it's pretty much virtual,
supposed to be in my chest,
but not there.
Don't get me wrong.
It's not a big fat flattering love letter, you know.
I'm merely studying you under the microscope,
like a calm, unbiased, meticulous scientist,
doing research in silence,
slicing and dicing a frog.
And the more he analyzes this madness,
the more ****** up he becomes,
anatomizing your black soul's dark guardian angel
you are so desperately craving for
who is capable of quenching your thirst
for the only language a dark angel knows,
which is a wild evil love.
Love and evil.
God and the devil, combined.
He's behind you all the way
in the hall of fame on the wall of shame.
Well, I suppose, two heads are better than one
because you can perform an experiment on one of them.
Stop being a hostage of your own role.
You're on your own from now on,
not lonely, alone only, though.
You were a good, slim fellow.
But now you've become even better.
Keep using your flaws,
rotten pieces of the mind of your future corpse
to hone your skills and master your soul.
And when you're deeply alone and unknown,
you'll gain your total freedom.
I'm sure you've already started to write a song about it,
(have you, really? Can I hear it?)
and, of course, your new album will be double platinum
‘cause you are the king.
Totally, totally. I agree.
I mean, the most beautiful drama queen.
Yet, to be actually free,
you must just adjust and really need to see
through the prism of your soul
that your self-important beloved self-torture
you are so deeply engrossed in,
thinking it's motivating,
yet instead, it's instigating,
self-indulgent suffering rapture,
absorbing you, is worthless.
Don't feed yourself to your pain.
It will obliterate your brain,
devastate your heart and burn you in its flame.
You're more significant than this.
The contents of your shape are more important than the context of the game.
You became too big for your frame
and keep growing, because you can.
I didn't suffer too much, just enough to be what I am.
You are not broken completely, just enough to be what you are,
to transform the weakness of man
into the power of god.
I wanna evolve with you,
because I’m in love with you.
You need pain to appreciate love,
fear of death to cherish life
so you can feel when it correlates
with the nature's grace in many ways
and shapes your soul, your gestalt.
I love to see my body change and my consciousness grow.
I love life because it's temporary.
It's my favorite show.
There's not much to say. You've been through a lot.
We've all been. So what?
And we all still have this hurt, scared, sullen, depressed, enraged, silent teenager deep inside
we want to protect by creating a strong dark guardian angel
for our inner child to grow up.
So don't act like your sorrow is wider than the universe.
You're not the only one of your kind.
You know, it's not that entertaining
to see the vivid pictures you paint with your pain and
listen to your heart-breaking complainings.
As if your cathartic torments and problems are worth my emotional resources.
Like I didn't suffer from my own losses,
or wait for the right response
as a sufficient answer from a wrong person.
Unlike all miserable people,
I don't want to be miserable like you.
But I do want you to be happy,
like I am right now,
even though I'm not good enough
in finding the right words to show you how.
I mean, you think you own the word,
when, in fact, the word owns you.
You don't come up with words,
they come up to you,
get into your mouth in the form of a ****,
and come into your brain
with mind-blowing-ceilings ideas,
breaking your head’s virginal membrane.
It ******* so deep that it makes you addicted to this game.
It comes into you
till it engulfs you on the inside
and becomes you.
Out of your subconscious mind,
words come to you, swift and alive.
You put them down to die.
And you play this game again and again
in the point of singularity inside the circle of limited abilities
but with the point of view
of an intentionally infinite creative potential
to elaborate on undeliberate liberation,
ready to unfold into a universe
and become broad-minded too.
But how can I know my potential if I can't reach the unreachable thresholds?
Feelings are precious because of being captivating and transient.
This is how this world works.
Well, apparently, life is not only a paradise
but also a hell sometimes.
Still, it's not just black and white.
Between them is a rainbow.
**** happens.
Let it go, just go with the flow.
But steer the ship where you need to go.
Life smacks and *****.
You snap and grow.
Should you hit rock bottom,
push off and break through the ceiling.
Keep pushing the limits
till you rocket through the roof of the Empire State Building,
where now only sky's the limit
in the endless space of your heavy mind,
filled with heavenly, godly light
I know you like this feeling
of being godlike dynamite.
You've really got the power when you hold a mic.
Never give in, toy soldier, fighting monsters.
Keep cracking nuts and silly jokes.
Ah, God, have mercy, not again.
"Somebody, help me!
I'm drowning in my ****."
Why don't you write s song that pulls you out of it?
Don't be too melodramatic.
You're not a lonely Captain Obvious
on a sinking ship.
You're a switchman for a locomotive,
not a lost cause.
Please, don't say that.
I'm sure it's not that bad.
At least it's better than it was
if you don't concentrate on what you've lost,
'cause there is always pros and cons,
which is characteristic of controversial, dualistic worlds.
Enlightenment
As I’ve already told ya,
I want you to be happy.
I kid you not.
We’ll go together through your highs and lows.
Although we all are one in this world, but alone in our lives,
you don't have to be alone this time.
You don't have to be strong all the time.
I'll be with you till the day I die.
I stand behind you as though behind the brick wall.
I am your shadow, you are my hero,
which is an ironical paradox,
as you are also a free-spirited misogynist according to your controversial songs.
However, in all fairness, to avoid double standards, of course,
for the sake of argument, in other words, equal rights and feminism,
it's worth mentioning that women, too, can certainly be mean.
Apparently, one of them would be me.
But since you have the same shady clown as I do,
you know I only kid now here,
deep down inside, I'm good and kind.
And together, we are a humble, big god’s sneer at humankind.
The faith in you of like-minded people, your fans
strengthens your faith in yourself,
and you grow as a god,
who's not lonely in the solitude of his art.
And even if no one believes in you,
you always got the guts to believe in yourself anywise.
That’s what makes you the greatest of all time.
But listen, life is more than just a struggle or a competition
with achieving endless goals and accomplishing impossible missions.
It could be a journey or a lesson.
So start to count your ******* blessings.
And would it **** ya to smile once in a while?
Or would it turn you into a slime?
It's not a contest in who suffers more
or whose **** is the biggest.
**** a lemon, dude,
enjoy and feast on your shitburger with gratitude,
don't give up, but embrace bad luck,
put your hands in the air like you don't give a ****,
for your only freedom is in your attitude,
which comes from your enlightenment,
which, in its turn, depends on your body's alignment,
mental and logical,
instrumental and physiological,
that is the state of your health,
expressed in your mood.
Even though you're just a jester and a fool,
be grateful for endless opportunities to get enlightened that life gives you.
We've all been given the power of co-creation as a gift.
Unfortunately, not all of us notice and can use it for our benefit.
People often treat life as a waiting line
before they wake up on the other side,
not knowing that they can awaken now,
having forgotten how.
Although being awfully unlawful,
I know you know about this paradox -
the universal law of the universal love
that when you long for love,
you fall in desperation.
But as soon as you let go,
as if you are already loved
by yourself in the first place,
it comes to you, and you accept her,
become love.
You give in, surrender, win without the fight within through relaxation.
And the old you are naturally replaced with the new you, hence.
The universe won't give you the result you want for your attempts.
It reflects your mind's state.
Read the reality. Sense it,
even when your mind doesn't see any sense.
You don't believe or know. You feel.
I am grateful for the reality I'm in.
And the creator is glad
‘cause he feels it as well and thanks me back.
The use of you to the universe is your enjoying life.
There is always enough time for this now, in this moment.
So don't forget to celebrate your life.
Be grateful for the greatest party,
where you're connected with everything and everybody.
Keep going and growing.
You're not lonely on your journey.
We are all alone,
but we are all one
love.
Like we are the cells of one big organism in one big ******,
and through the music in our blood,
we get out and become gods.
Then we meet in the new reality
to grow into each other again
to find God inside of us.
To enjoy life directly, without words,
don't hide from love behind jokes.
Feel your soul through the temple of your body with open doors.
You are the mightiest god only for yourself in this world,
where there is, in fact, no competition,
only the illusion, which keeps being tirelessly debunked by a free mind for your higher self recognition.
Connect to the source,
take the energy, feel it in your very core,
and direct it to where you want to be
to improve your greatest power -
your love ability.
When you give your all to love,
you receive even more -
your own infinity.
Morfreeda
There are no mistakes or coincidences in your serendipitous destiny,
nor one rhyme or reason, or justice for all.
Even poetical.
It's just this one sole moment we're kept in,
like in prison for the soul.
So the question is not, to be or not to be,
but can I or am I compelled by the belief that it's impossible?
It just happened to be this way
so that now it can only be called fate.
Enjoy the path that you chose.
Have a nice ride along the road
to the timeless nowhere and nevermore.
Suffice to say that it's a beautiful and terrible world
where we can't tame a feeling by describing it,
not even with sophisticated phrases.
We only follow it, always behind
like a famished wolf, chasing its prey,
softly, with an untiresome determination,
stepping on its traces,
left here with prayers
in deafening silence to the higher self
who's free from ambiguity and hypocrisy,
'cause it's content, self-sufficient, wordless, selfless.
It always knows better what to do
so you could again experience déjàh vu.
If your mind resembles mine,
you must know what I'm talking about.
The divine power I feel is the source of
my undying force of vicious words
and a spark that can start a fire,
capable of destroying empires.
It inspires to bend space and time.
And for this, I use you as an instrument or a tool
to love myself by means of you.
Well, what can I say?
I have been using you.
I did need it. So I did it.
Not to humiliate you, but to annihilate you,
I made you a part of my immortal, immaterial, nonexistent speculative art,
the deceiving art of a self-believing word god
in the body of a biological robot.
Good thing if you're also a coder
aside from being merely a human being,
for if you become old and ugly,
then you have to learn how to appreciate the beauty inside you,
else you're either a lame coder
or you go further, do not give up.
I think, in this case, you switch to become a god.
Otherwise, what's the point, though?
So use your brain as a processor
to get access to the database of your soul.
Yeah, good thinking. Why not?
It may sound messy and depressing,
but also interesting and impressive,
'cause when I start writing,
it seems like I stop living and start dying,
putting my heart and soul into words,
can't get rid of my poetical mortido,
doomed to be in love with searching for more freedom.
It makes me think I have enough power of spirit
in the fragile flesh to admit that
I don't live but gradually die
and that I'm worthy of the brave and honorable name Morfreeda.
And once you get to know her,
I think she's actually kinda sorta nice,
quite nice, yeah,
(right, wait what? Nice?
You call that nice?
Morfreeda?
Shh! Are you insane?
Jesus ******* Christ!
Don't say this name in vain.)
as long as she doesn't disturb others,
duh,
describing her thoughts,
when she's out of sorts,
‘cause thoughts being spoken are a lie
despite the theoretical ability to be materialized.
You don't get them if you don't feel them to survive.
And even if you do,
it is still not quite true
as it just seems I understand you.
That's why I prefer practice to theory,
the feeling to words,
which are the consequence that follows the cause.
A described feeling dies in words.
They become its tombstone.
It's best not to open the box
you won't be able to close,
unless you use words as a means
to achieve certain goals,
such as creating a universe,
where after art chaos has systematized
with the feeling embodied,
creative energy has formed,
dark matter has become tactile,
it's bound to realize itself and die,
then again to be born
with no end, God knows why.
Can you get out of the world of words by means of words,
with which you try to understand something that can't be understood?
No, YodaBuddha, but you could use ‘em as the beginner’s course.
Then shoot for the moon and go on.
Yeah, I coulda, to have something to move on from.
I accept the fact that I'm not here forevermore,
at the same time,
can't comprehend that I'll disappear completely.
I guess my ego just needs to think so,
hopefully, to complete me,
but I'm afraid, for it to live, it needs to eat me
to become whole,
get the complete self-sufficiency of an egocentric god.
What would you do if an impudent fool
with the confidence of a bull came up to you
and acted like an uncouth animal?
Play hide-and-seek or peekaboo?
How would you make this pickle laughable?
I'd try to avoid making eye contact and the following dialogue.
"Leave me alone, illiterate idiot."
"What if I don't? What you gonna do about it?
"Don't touch me, please.
M…, I'm serious!"
"You wanna hook up?"
"What? No, thanks. I'd rather not."
"Why not?
Why so hostile and furious?
Aren't you at least a bit curious?"
"I am, but curiosity killed a cat.
So it's still alive but potentially dead."
"Well, **** with that **** cat.
You're not that good a philosopher,
just a unnecessary poet."
So here is how after flying around high in the space sky,
I'm falling down to the ground
and even lower, deeper and darker
straight towards the hell underground.
So how come I fell and felt like I'm in hell, dead,
but turned out to be in paradise, more than alive instead?
And now the immanent god Jahsdoit is I.
Here I dwell in my fairy tale
with the consciousness level sky-*******-rocketing,
sitting on the rainbow cloud of love
spitting down from above.
You get it, right? You become immortal too,
sharing your growing soul with your aspiring admirer
through your inspiring art that will never expire.
It becomes a part of us,
united by one everlasting love that turns us into gods.
Why not?
With you, I'm free and wild,
can say whatever I want, smile,
and be not afraid or shy
to look like a child,
be whatever I wanna be,
go as far as I can,
do whatever it takes,
maybe even trip abroad,
wander around the world,
and see as far as it's possible for a god.
You are a hell of an artist.
And I love this about you.
While slowly dying,
you entertain and enjoy yourself by making up your plot,
writing.
Although I know I've created the character of you
in the image of an attentive god in my mind,
while in reality he's oblivious, you don't care, and I talk to myself,
created in the image of my soul, the sense,
materialized in the body,
learning to realize itself in its life,
(for what?)
considering it's hard and time-and-energy-consuming
for a tiny, puny, stupid woman,
I am being absorbed by a mind-boggling thought
and can be anything from a crushed roach
to a convincingly invincible, imperishable, really superhuman god.
****, that's some spiritual, awakening, dopest ****. Enjoy it.
Never hesitate, though, to tell me I make a mistake, word slave,
so that I wouldn't feel all too high and mighty.
But don't underestimate me. Okay?
Kindly bite me.
Even if I think it's worth being called high-quality literature,
written by a highly spiritual creature,
every time I say I'm a god,
keep convincing me that I'm not.
Humiliate and humble me with your immodest art,
try to bring me back to my rut,
‘cause I'm nobody, as a matter of fact.
Even if I am brilliant,
treat me accordingly,
but don't you ******* ever tell me I'm one in a million.
I don't wanna hear it.
Let me silently rot in my tranquil, transcendent oblivion.
See, every time I open my mouth
some stupid **** may come out.
So don't be too shy to shut me up.
I obvi can't hold a candle to you, duh.
But I'm tired of holding it for you.
And I'm not sure if I can handle the mental state of my “brilliant brain”
with the willpower melting and getting soft like cotton wool.
I will never be good enough,
because even though I may feel I deserve to hold
all the platinum and gold of the whole world,
I'm afraid I would trade it for your love.
Yeah, I may sound too controversial.
But you know that people can be deep like oceans
so we could drown in each other, discovering ourselves through our deep dope emotions,
hearing voices from the depth of our cosmic consciousness,
reflecting as the starlight off water.
Free will
Didn't want to make it too complicated,
but I did indeed overcontemplate it.
One more thing to wrap it up.
Stay my pie in the sky,
my pure platonic love,
unreachable idol, perfect guy,
I made up in my mind,
'cause the cake is a lie.
And what's ideal
in reality is not real.
The farther you are,
the lesser the harm,
the better I will become,
for the bigger my ego,
the lesser I am.
Otherwise, it may swell,
rise to a monstrous size,
get too rad, lit, and wet.
Well, sir Raps-a-lot,
you taught me well
how to reach new heights.
I appreciate that,
thanks a lot.
People love to be in love with their idols,
‘cause they see them in themselves.
So I like you because I'm like you.
Yeah, I know, it's another cliché,
but it's true.
I'm just trying to be as candid as I can.
You don't want me to lie to you, do you?
If so, I promise to be always honest.
And to be frank, I couldn't have lied even if I tried.
I can't hide what I got on my mind
because the feeling is I.
Believe me, your life will be just fine
as long as you don't interfere with mine.
Let's keep this agonizingly screaming secret
about a childish curiosity growing into an adult lust,
getting wilder and sicker between us,
disguising it with passionate patience
characteristic of mentally unstable patients
with unrealistic expectations,
deeply hidden in the **** sculpture,
the virtual statue of forever frozen hot feelings
in my mind, embodied in my body.
I'll be your pipe dream too.
I don't wanna be your fan anymore.
You gotta let me go.
I can't live in two realities simultaneously.
Though, I must say, sometimes I'd like to think of myself as of a multitask woman.
I just need more than this. I choose love,
even if it's not with you, man.
You can hug me if you want.
I do surrender to my last love.
It frees me and enslaves me
till my death comes.
While my hobby is you,
my hubby and you are actually alike.
He's also got father issues.
He's also a poet and a musician.
But somehow he managed to figure out his zen way out of the world of words.
And I'm like between two fires,
the devil's anvil and the hammer of Thor,
where, breaking the triangle of madness, bad meets evil in the middle of love.
I want you, too, to be inspired,
be always capable of more.
Also, at least, my friend, please, don't deny it.
You love the image of a *****.
Hey, what ya know?
Even Jesus's female apostle
is gossiped to be a groupie and a *****
according to the Gospels, after all.
So she's been called.
So what?
Despite the rumor,
she's also considered to be a faithful fan,
devoted follower, and a loyal woman, though.
What a great potential for a saint *****,
for a human soul to grow into a god.
Yo, does it offend you
that I don't wanna be your fan, dude?
'Cause I think I understand you.
I don't wanna have a crowd of fans either,
just one reader.
Nor do I wanna like you as a fan,
'cause I like you as a human
with a very peculiar sense of humor, man,
and as a humble, simple, easy-going person,
the genius of controversy.
Yet, I still feel like I am but the best,
meanest queen of yo' fans
in your a lil’ shady, big fat ******' fan club,
the evilest ***** in your devilish church
or, as you call it, the satanic cult,
where you are the ******* king and the supreme god,
kinda like Jesus, the protector of ******,
poor, weak, bad girls,
who were so delighted to be near someone so enlightened
and so perfectly good,
that it looked as if God himself came on to them and ****** all over their faces,
glowing with the golden light of God's dew.
And they would be endlessly grateful,
kiss him, embrace him,
'cause that's how great, obviously, God's grace is.
(Geez! I think I might be at risk
of being put into jail for this
too free-speech a piece
or, at worst, burned in hell.
Oh, well… some people are just impossible to appease,
like those ******* never flying pigs.
Pardon my French. I meant the police.
I'm not an asskisser-politician for everyone to please, anyways.)
Well, well, well, look at that.
Apparently, my hobby’s obvi also rap.
Yep… yeppity, yep, yep, yep.
I know you won't be able to write anything better.
But you know you will be better than yourself.
Should you refuse to be my friend,
that's alright.
I'm not mad and don't mind.
I'll understand.
Hopefully, I won't be banned
because you're afraid of becoming my friend,
like you are in need of another fan.
What for?
To be together in this, like we are married?
You've already got millions of them.
Why would you want one more?
Especially if he’s as miserable as you are.
There are too many of them.
I clearly can't be the biggest one.
I can never be your woman
and gotta admit
you can't be in love with me.
Even if you ban me, hiding behind your fame
knock yourself out. I won't blame you, really.
Man, I'd probably do the same.
So no hard feelings.
Tell me you don't need me,
give me just one reason,
and I'll leave ya,
won't bother you again.
I think, to stop being a fan,
one should be worthy of their idol.
Otherwise, it looks pathologically pathetic and suicidal.
It sounds anarchistic and utopian,
but I believe that everyone
is supposed to be their own god,
a creator of their own art.
Most people just don't know that.
You're designed this way,
it's in the spiral of your DNA, your blood,
undulates like a wave around the golden middle way.
You're a miserable and dissolving in God part
if you do not create your god.
After all, you are allowed to imagine whatever you want
since you've been given a virtual free will
to select your reality version.
It's your only freedom to choose what you want to feel,
which feeling you prefer to be thrilled with or drown in.
You know, you and I,
we don’t even have to die.
I mean, we have been given the whole palette of feelings
not just to disappear.
You can choose your reality now
and stay here forever, if you will.
We have an endless number of abilities in our limited imagination
longing for getting over the boundaries of reality to meet our expectations
for being surprised
and break free from stereotypes.
Reality scares us, it's always unknown.
That's why we run from it by creating our own.
For this, we have art
to interpret it somehow and hopefully find out why
and how to overcome our sense of mind.
We'll see how I can handle my sins.
If I can separate myself from at least one,
that will appear to be nearly a miracle I've hardly ever seen
or will see before I'm gone.
You know, back in the day,
I thought I wanted to stop writing this.
Now it turns out I don't,
'cause if I did really want,
I would have done it a long time ago.
I believe I'm about to let it go
but still ready for more.
Déjà vu
or just a flashback.
I’ve been here with you.
It all had happened already before.
How many times? I lost track.
I don't mind if it dies with me,
don't care what it does to me anymore,
even if it erases me into dust.
Let it be.
Let it burn in me
for me forever to be free.
The rhapsody, annoying like ****** spread with the speed of a viral infection or a rumor,
vile perseverance of an early bloomer,
exhilaration of the generation of baby boomers,
then outgrew me like a tumor.
I'm not afraid to take it to my grave.
But I wish you could tell me it's all not in vain,
that it's not lost on you.
I want you to see my pain
so that you want me to be your friend too.
At the same time, the most important thing seems to be art,
'cause while I'm mortal, it's not.
It's bigger than you and me,
or any human being, actually.
Manuscripts don't burn. They break free
and stay in their authors' souls for eternity,
as an undying legacy
and the light of dead stars in the memory of celestial gods.
And nothing else matters,
if it's destined to be.
For this, artists sacrifice their lives on the altar of art.
It's a drug that most likely will **** me.
Art engulfs you like dope bliss or ******
and takes you to Shangri-La,
from where you don't wanna come back,
like a ******* sexaholic, hopeless romantic, or a ******* ******,
drowning on his feeble craft in the rough sea of evil love.
Yeah, I know that my poem is a drug,
cruising in your vessels,
with verses, soaked in dope
so you could get off.
And I've already written enough to get high on my own stuff.
That's why I feel I'm more to you than just a fan.
And you are more to me than just a god.
You'd always been more like my rap guide, mentor, brother, and a friend,
apparently the closest one so far,
so good, in fact,
the best friend I have never had.
Even if I don't see how my magic actually worked,
and you read what I wrote,
should you not get to read this before you die,
or I finally lose my mind,
too big for the cell of the scull.
my love will find you in your next life.
I believe I have enough free will for that.
I'm at the same point of the same circle again
to realize that I have free will to change my fate.
How much freedom of will do you need, or you think you have?
50/50? At least you've got yourself.
Sounds fair, not too shabby.
Isn't that enough?
Don't be afraid to love.
When are you really happy?
Tell me, answer, guy.
When you got nothing to lose in your life except your life?
The older I get, the more vividly I realize that.
Don't be a wuss.
You have nothing to lose,
as you are already self-sufficient.
Be happy if you want, trust me.
You've got the power,
just unleash it.
When you believe in yourself,
you are the master,
the master of the Universe,
made of indestructible star-dust love.
I wanna evolve with you,
as though I’m in love with you.
Yo, dawg, you are the goat.
But I gotta go further.
I'll dive deeper into the flow of my thoughts and see how it goes.
While my mind is the figment of the imagination of the creator
and, as a character, I say his words,
the character's free will comes from the subconsciousness of the author.
So my fate is God's plot.
But what if I am the god?
Then I'll fly up the stairs of my destiny,
overcoming the labyrinth Pattern.
For if I have the guts to believe in myself when no one does,
that makes me the greatest of all the gods.
Farewell*
I wonder if we could be real friends.
Well, I guess it depends
on many things.
And I know it's superfluous, let alone too good to be true,
considering the fact that I can't be a good friend to you
till I feel I so much depend on you.
I ain't saying that I do know you.
I'm just saying it seems to be true.
While in reality, I actually don't give a **** about you,
just like you pretend not to.
But a part of me will always be curious about you
and wouldn't mind if you got to know me too.
I hope you don't see me as an impeding, annoying, rude intruder.
If I could say it more delicately and subtly, I would've.
I started this verse as your worst fan
and ended it as your best imaginary friend.
Even though I recognize you in me, man,
I don't actually intend to be your real friend,
unless maybe a penfriend.
Besides, compared to my fantasy, the real you are most likely worse
because my imagination is closer to me than yours, of course.
I know that it all is just in my head.
So I guess it's farewell, then.
Do you need a hug?
Oh, yeah, I forgot. You don't give a ****.
Sorry you had to be involved.
It's not your fault.
Please, don't get mad or upset about anything I have said.
I think you can say anything to your friend
because he has the ability to understand and forgive.
I just needed to clean out my closet,
close it and try to forget,
write now, then read and get rid of it.
Well, you know more than me about that.
Thoughts are like habits, worn out clothes,
that you put on your mind into a plot
to look at it from afar
and get some more freedom.
With an empty head, your heart gets filled with love.
I thought it mattered what I said and why I said it.
Forgive me if I hurt your feelings.
They may look different from what they really are.
I thought I was telling the truth.
While I was just fighting my demons,
it looked like I was in love with you.
I also believed I was playing with a toy.
It turned out I was simply paying with my time for the marketing ploy,
the successful American dream embodiment.
I needed to feel and believe in my fantasy
to realize it and create this reality,
wake up in a dream within a dream.
Now I wanna evolve alone, without you,
‘cause I’m not really in love with you.
And I don't wanna be like you.
Indeed, why did I even want you to read it?
I gotta admit,
why would I need you, when I got me
so I can be whatever I wanna be,
become a better version of me?
I know I've said a lot of batshit crazy things
(in my defense, I was high most of the time,
so high on ***, also highly *****,
oh my God, too ******* hot),
but the only important and sane one is this.
Dude, it's my “ode”, a tribute of my gratitude and respect to you.
Talking to you is a pleasure of making love brutally true.
So in the end, this **** is not that bad, I assume.
However, you perhaps shouldn't even have read about this castle in the air,
evoked by the seizure of inspiration,
a theatrically emotional spasm.
All I really wanted to say is that my imagination with you is a limitless chasm.
I co-create with you.
Anticipation is more desirable than a big-bang ******.
The conversation, spiced up with wicked humor and brilliant sarcasm,
fires up the burning sensation of passion
to always find something new in you
thanks to your enormous confidence,
eminent will power, high self-esteem and IQ.
I mean, to succeed, you didn't even need to finish school.
My evil genius, expressed in being eloquent, angry, and rude,
stupefyingly cool and cute,
feeling eternal spring in the cell of solitude.
For this, I'm forever grateful,
a hopeless romantic, lost in love fool.
Don't ever let me forget you!
Don't let me forget you.
P.S. With all that said, I realized
I appeared to be merely a fan, losing my time,
'cause if I wanna be a peer to a god,
apparently, I gotta have my own art.
Well, maybe not the whole time.
At least I had fun.
You'll live forever in my memory,
even after you die.
I'll resurrect you, for you're my favorite,
concrete matter, indeed divine.
See you. I promise, you won't get lost,
just in case you forgot.
I'll create new you without words
in the best of my worlds, my god.
An epic, free-verse, long poem, rhapsody, tribute to Eminem without censorship whatsoever, work in progress.
22K words
