The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.

They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.

They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.

They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.

They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.

Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.

The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.

The day was bright like wash on the line,
Cold like an ice cream headache,
Crowded like a jar of jellybeans.
He has forgotten me like an overdue bill.
His mom is as giggly as a ******* prom night.
My house is messy as the inside of a pumpkin.
Christmas Eve was empty like the endpapers of a book.

I have a favor I must ask
of you, and only you:
I need your body back,
your flesh, your warmth.
Your arms wrapped around me,
holding me tight, pulling me in-
silently speaking the words
"you're mine,
I'm your's. We are safe."
because baby, I have
a confession to make
I wrote poems in your
skin that you don't know
I left there.
You see my dear,
I tucked my quiet rhymes
behind your ears for
times I knew you'd
need to hear my words
so soft and sweet,
My words: I love you
My words: I am here
My words: I am not going anywhere.
(Little did I know you would.)
                    •••
I hid similies and metaphors
in the nooks and crooks
of your elbows and knees
because poetry must be just as
good an oil as any for a
twenty-eight year old tin man right?
****, I don't know
but that's where they fit,
where they were meant to go.
                    •••
The first time our bodies connected,
our forces colliding just like
The Milky Way and Andromeda
will in four billion years-
my universe aligning with yours
as we lay in the grass
you and I both whispered:
"This is wrong."
For the first time on
that summer night I wrote
my words secretly into your skin.
My words: "How can something
wrong feel so right?"
                    •••
Baby, I'm looking for home and
I know you're looking for a heart
so here's mine-
written in words on your flesh
that you don't know are there.
Here's mine-
to fill your dark cavern
because no heart should be dark,
no heart a cavern.
Here's mine-
my throbbing, beating mess of a heart
filled with everyone I've ever loved
and there you are on top.
                    •••
Then came the days
without "I love you."
On those days,
with my fingertips frostbitten
and trying to text,
I wrote my words on scraps
of paper, turned them into airplanes,
and aimed in your direction
hoping that maybe,
just maybe,
their tips would pierce your skin
injecting the warmth I once received.
                    •••
To the man I used to love,
You can keep your body
and all the words I wrote in
places I wanted you to look
and hoped you wouldn't miss.

A simile is like a metaphor.
A metaphor is a similie,
Except if it forgot "like" or "as"

A similie is like checkers,
The rules are simple, easy to follow.
A metaphor is chess,
Complex and intricate.

Think of a simile as the store brand
A metaphor is the name brand
Of anything.

Metaphors are tests for the mind,
They make you visualize
Bear Mountain.

Similies are like little suggestions,
They point you in the right direction,
The Mountain was big like a bear.

Both important,
Both fun!

I like similies
Metaphores are love.

You are as far as a soldier from his bricked home, his brave, frail mother, his noisy night by the mustached man's shop who was also his friend's best uncle. Best friend's uncle.

You are far but not like finding water in a long desert far. That image alone chokes me. You are far like clean water on a beach far, when your shoes are filled with mud and every step forward is a burden you have no choice but to take.

You are far like help on an empty road far, when night and horror fills in the lungs and only a whisper splutters out.

You are far like hope for a bright student's first big failure, redemption for a sinner, and love for a newborn - one whose mother died delivering.

You are far but not like light in a blind's eye far. You are far like light in my life far.

i once dated a boy who found it "adorable" that i know how to change my headlights
     fill my radiator
     change the oil
     and notice every stopsign as i'm halfway through it
he dumped me via text

before that
there was a boy who loved my lack of first person capitalization
     my over-use of metaphores and similies
     the way i personify the night
     and practice preforming poetry in the shower
he took off into the sunset with my journal in his shoulder-sack

and somewhere in between
i stopped asking myself what it means
threw up my hands
     and learned to enjoy the ride

Love is like an abandoned building
It can come crashing down at any moment

Trust is like a tripwire
One false move and its all over

Honesty is like me
Sometimes your wanted and other times your not

Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,

And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,

Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,

Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.

A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the  bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.

But a poet,  a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt

To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.


And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,

Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile

Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet,  a poet will spend lifetimes trying

To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.

And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others  
That the poet will feel only rage,

And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,

For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.

what can be classified
as romantic?
do both parties partially understand
the mechanics
of exchange, its similies and subtleties
or worse,
the nature of its never-stagnant
recourse?

of course, as a writer myself,
one could
always find the answer
but would
never find the perfect example
as if
the mere combination of a couple
letters of

would fit your needs as well as mine
but
nonetheless, my friend, we all
know the
answer, somewhere, and I'd like
to believe
that the person you'd write to
knows that too.

I could probably write a bunch of stanza's
With black letters and white background of metaphors and similies
I could use pretty words and figures of speech
And end with something ironic.
Or use lines that we've all heard before and try to pass it off as my own,
or write something that's all too vague.
But the truth is
All I'd really be writing about
Is the same old concept that's been written about in poetry for years
And the same feeling that's felt all across the world on a Saturday night when we are alone:
A little bored
Maybe even a little lonely
And a little desperate for a miracle.

Here I am
This is me
What you get
Is what you see
Standing here
Wasting time
Thinking of
Another rhyme
Words go round
In my head
I lie awake
In my bed
Anecdotes
Similies
Use them wisely
If you please
A blank pad
A dried up pen
Please don't give me
Block again
I need my words
They have to flow
And to the world
They're put on show
Excitement flows
I've reached a peak
Nah can't be arsed
I'll save it for another week

I lost all my great comparisons
After you'd gone.
No constellation metaphors,
Or moony similies.
It's as if...
I'm ten,
And I hadn't heard of black holes.

No muses need apply.
There are no vacancies.
The muse pool is brimming
With metaphors:

     They are thieves
     In the night,
     Absconding stars
     Of time and direction.

No muses need apply
To classifieds calling
To The Lonely Hearts,
Whose term has expired.

     SWM desiring SWF
     for Pina Colada.
     Cave optional.

Lonliness has carried them
To the gates, where
Lonliness awaits.

No. No muses neep apply.
Notes no longer passed
Between rows
In copy-book pages,
Where a returned smile
Meant Sarturday night.

No muses need apply.
Eyes have dried.
No more similies
As you depart,
No figures of speech
From muted heart.
You have left,
And that's a start.

No muses need apply.

A flash. A crack.
Then the skies opened.
The ground swelled
With similies and metaphors;
Punctuation pooled into puddles
Of alliteration,
Forming rivulets of comparison,
Making streams of consciousness
For any to dip a toe, wade, swim, submerge.
Cascading rivers of figures
Of speech
Will evaporate
Wordy clouds
To wash over us again,
And soak us in blue verse.

the human mind is just an extravagant illusion.

a complicated spectrum of polarized emotions

fluid and elegant dreams like boats on waters that ripple infinitely, obliviously

(because once you wake up, theyre gone)

what we call "love" is just a chemical released

what we believe is the sun , the moon, the energy

is nothing compared to what they ACTUALLY ARE.

it is just easier to assign them names, proper scientific qualities and observations than to stay awake in our beds and enjoy the mystery

we don't have enough time to be confused.

confusion?

in which the mind struggles to process a stream of thoughts into a single explainable or even remotely comprehensive one

therefore, transferred into words,

metaphors and similies

because emotion, the concept can never be explained clear

these, after all, are just words.

they shall make no significant impact on those who don't accept them.

words are just a series of symbols we convince you to believe in.

like numbers,

time.

where does the past go?

do the memories still wallow in a another realm exactly where you left them

the times you danced under the moon

or that first kiss

you swear, so much, that the energy is left behind.

the fascinating way you still feel the shadows of things that will never be again.

I arrange these messes of letters;
Trying to express feelings and thoughts.
Twenty six letters do not suffice
To describe some states of mind.
No metaphors, or similies, could portray
The hyperbole, of self induced dismay.

In the mist of all,
The pen is thy sword.
To guide words to a page.

Scribbling words,
Phrases forming.
Metaphorically speaking.
Like an actor with much,
Or too much.
Enthusiasm.

A heart is guided,
By its words.
The mind forms the phrases,
Pasting it to the page.

In the mind,
Images are forming.
Figuratively dancing,
In the eyes of the reader.

Many forms used,
Many styles created.
Forming phrases of wisdom.

The creator,
The master of this piece of art.
Forms Metaphors, Similies.
To say something.

A las!
Thy master piece is created.
Words pasted to the page.

This piece of art,
Was created by the writer.
Who is not afraid to share,
Their life story.
A writer by heart.
A Shakespeare in the making.

Creating poems of art,
Sharing their integrity.

They post their poems,
Unafraid to show their life.
That they live,
Everyday.

stay up with me until 5 am
and listen to the rain pouring
save me the washed up *******
"the rain is falling hard and so am I"
don't tell me that
tell me what you really feel for me
tell me why you really treat me like I am your world
only in the early hours of the morning
tell me why the Sunrise changes everything
spare the similies and metaphors
tell it to me straight
why is it your love for me only exists
when the Moon is high
and you are drunk
why does my love for you
stay so coherently in my day and my night
why does it persist to remain
when you can't even remember my name
after it all

similies like crazy
at the end of every day
when we sit and watch and wonder
where we throw our lives away
when we throw our lives away

we're smiling like crazy
at the people walking by
hope that they dont hear us talking
as we laugh and then we sigh
then we laugh, and then we sigh

its similar to falling
yet exceptional at best
when we're standing up together
when we're sitting down to rest
when we're laying down to rest

as simply as i see you
its as easy then to say
that i see us intertwining
in a convoluted way
such a transcendental way



as disentegrating phrases
meet our pierced and weary ears
will we try to patch together
all our long and weary years
oh such long and weary years


but i know when we lay morbid
and we close our heavy lids
we will hand in hand be living
loving life as we were kids
living life when we were kids

The dregs are in
The bottle;
The crumbs are on
The floor;
I've nothing to
Regurgitate;
I'm an empty plate.

So, I'll dip
My bucket
In Lake Muse,
Drink its waters
Til I ooze
With metaphors
And similies
To read on
Hello Poetry.

after the alcohol
rots our insides and
the morning sunrise
stings our eyes and
the fact that we didn't die
today, after all of that, there's still
smiles to see and
similies to say and
hope that the weather'll change and
the gusty wind won't blow our thoughts away.

well anyway.

His voice is like cotton candy
Like icebergs melting into waterfalls
Like the warmth that can ignite the sky
The soft sound of dandelions in flight

The metaphors and similies fall short
He can tell me that all I know is wrong
And I would still believe him

Everyone is always

Saying

What a

Beutiful

Sunset

What a

Magnificent

Beutiful

Sight

But don't forget

That monsters can

Be beutiful

That war can

Be magnificent

And yet a sunset

It is still

Pretty

Pleasing

Romantic

Idealic

Such a soft sight

Such a little snippet of

Gentle

Kind

And it is

All those beutiful

Things

But it is also

Death

It is also

Darkness

A darkness on that light

For, why treat the

Herald

Of a

Tyrant

Like a

Queen

But

And yet

We make an exception

(The humans we are)

An exception for this

Beutiful

Magnificent sight

As it bleeds

As it cries

Tears of

Cloud

Just another

Casualtie

Of night

Pinks like watered

Blood

Oranges like

Funeral pieces

Such morbid

Similies

Such violent

Metaphors

For such a

Beutiful

Magnificent

Terrible

Sight.

Things

Cold

Dark

Lonely

Black

Dieing

Dieing

Dieing

Hope.

The final words

Of a poet

His

Rasping

Breaths

Hacking out

Words

Words like blood splattered flowers

What does he say in those

Final

Moments

What

Beutiful

Violent

Things?

The answer

Why, it just behind that

Dark

Dark

Horizon.

we used to be so close.
remember?
she envied how close we were.
she was always irritated at how
you'd come to me before you came to her.
i'd always laugh when she got mad,
but she hated me for it.
you told me your secrets.
and i told you mine.
we spoke in metaphors and similies
because you thought it was fun
and it gave me a good laugh.
i remember how on the last day of school
i ran up to hug you
and i tripped over a wooden block
and fell into you.
i was embarrassing
and clumsy
but i that one moment,
i don't think you really cared.
i remember how you hated books.
or maybe you just didn't like the ones i did?
either way,
i remember.
i moved away
and i feel so terrible.
you probably don't feel as terrible as i do
because you're a guy
and there's always other fishies in the sea, right?
maybe not
i love you
and i miss you more than moon
misses my window on a cloudy night
you texted me the other day
and told me you missed me
and i said the same

When I lost you
It was like
I lost the moon
and the sky

..(sighing)..

yeah..
that's what it was like

or even like
losing my keys
or a home to the fire
and even when
I had lost
my muse to write

..(lingering)..

wandering
today what you'd be like
my eyes you'd have
no doubt
my smile you'd wear
very real
wondering

..Nostalgic..

it was the worst thing

but all these similies
can either be rebuilt
or be better
But what God is not ready
to give back to me no more

is you son.

(INCREDIBLE INK- TEAM HAWAII)
© Copyright 2014 S.T  PARISH
Rebel of Eden

I will turn you into a writer
My many metaphors will make you dizzy
My soft tones will make you swoon
My sentences flow in perfect rhythm

I will turn you into a writer
My words will be strung together cautiously and meticulously
My similies will leave you comparing each aspect of yourself to others
My lyrics are as powerful as my love

I will turn you into a writer
Because I will make you question your existence
I will love every part of you while burning the edges of your book
I will hold you down like an anvil on a pedestal

I will turn you into a writer
Because I will make you feel alive while tearing you apart at the seams
And I'll distract you with my stanzas
I will trick you into thinking I am a writer just like I will trick you into thinking you're in love with me

I will turn you into a writer
I know the best art comes from pain
I will make you hurt and you won't have a choice
The only place you will be able to go to escape me are your thoughts

I will turn you into a writer
Because keeping thinking destroys a soul
And I will always encourage you to share how you feel
And what better way to do that than to write about me

time
just a location in space
that keeps you in line
puts you in place
take some off
it takes your place
ticks you off
shapes your face
makes you late
consumes your days
makes you nervous
makes you wait
takes you out
takes itself
offers wealth
exchanges health
for similies
and nurse's smiles
and promises
to stay a while

i strip metaphors off my skin
the feeling of you, something i never knew
i drink similies like they're gin
wishing and wishing and wishing,
i wish

Its not the vocabulary
The extravagant phrasing
And imacculate meter
Its not the originality
Of the metaphors
Or the identifiability of the similies
Its only the way
And nothing more
That that feelings are expressed

And understood

There is no such thing as a free poem
At least Not in these long teenage years filled to the brim with  
academic oppression
Teachers burrow into a poem searching for a deeper meaning forcing students into the depths with them
When in reality no deeper meaning needs to be found
The deeper meaning should be left where it belongs under the surface of the authors metaphors similies and other literary devices
The first thing we learn to enjoy in our youth is poetry such as nursery rhymes
What once caused giggles and restful nights of dream filled slumber  
Now only cause groaning and moaning as they have become tedious and mundane filled with hatred from students
Some teachers love poetry as if they are their lovers
dragging out the unit as long as they can
Much to the protest of the students
Others hate even the very thought of poetry
and even reading
So they nip the poetry unit
In the bud
Making it short
As possible

It's the part of the story, that
You can't quite put into words
Despite the message being sent
Through written symbols and prose

It's the point where the science is
Dissolving into ether
The solution is clear as day
Burning bright in your center

It's the similies we see, when
Peering into the cosmos
Black holes spiral the galaxies
Like Iris casting rainbows

There's an art to the way you walk
In teaching children to talk
The purest act of creation
To learn love and expression

M: You so petty like Tom be
Roaming around the earf like a zombie

P: You so petty like Tom be,
Roaming round the earth like a zombie clad in Abercrombie
Shut up, Fitch.
Pitchin a fit like a tone-deaf finch singin out of pitch, lickin a wack *** riff
Lost in space, trippin tha rift
Ya'll won't dig what I spit, but you could at least sift through the remnants

M: Here's your penance for the Cubs winning the pennant
Shut up man, you're no John Lennon
If you was a car, I'ma say you'd be a Lemon.
Here's my lime, it's a rhyme that I wrote in no time
About how crime can pay well if you do it right

P: It's time to plunder and plight, I'm full of blunder and spite
The Boy Wonder, I'm a robbin and I'm about to take flight
The crowd be clappin thunder all night
I'm slinging lightning, that's right
I'm Zeus, you're Hades and we'll be warring for the spotlight.
I may be a hater, but you're my hatee and the boss' order is:
Don't quit your day job, just keep on workin your nine to five.

M:I'm deep in the slime call me a Muck raker,
**** taker, but I never really give em though
Not a nice dude, but I've never really hit a ***
Kinda wonder why I ever really spit a flow in the first
Flow is absurd, crow is a bird, and they're murderous.

P:The rhyme is evolutionary, **** man, but what's a Muk to a Grimer?
Ya'll amateur rappers are just slappin paint on the canvas without a primer
There's no substance to your "art", I'll see your Trap and raise you a Hip Hop, cross the streams and blow up like Slimer.

Ya'll just some nickel and dimers tryin to hold up a dime store so you can pick up that dime sack that you're trying to afford.

The kind of fools ain't nobody got time for.
I've ascended Mt. Olympus, you ******* need to learn how to climb more.

M: Climb up, climb down, or don't climb at all
Don't listen to those try-hards,
Watch Die Hard again and then give me my vengeance.
You ever do penance? If not that'll cost ya six pence
And I need that **** quick since I already spent it.
Rap Game Tom Selleck.

Tom Hanks is a real person
Celebrities are real people.
I wish everyone would just feel people
Not like corporeally, but emotionally worth it.
Sober immaculate cut the tension with a hatchet.

Black people hate me cause I say I'm not racist
So I guess they just hate cause they faithless

P: Do not mistake the faithless with the tasteless,
But before I screech all my beliefs, let's just sink back into the cool relief of giving praise tot he great King Nostalgia.

Welcome to Good Burger, hey remember Hans Gruber, let's watch re-runs of Law & Order?

Your girl gobblin up my junk, call her **** Wolf.
More sinister than any Stallone villain, call me Mister Dolf Lundgren
Nerdier than any dragon or dungeon.
Dirtier than any old man askin his waitress for more sugar packets so he can drop em on the floor and watch her bend over.

Red Rover, Red Rover, this verse should already be over, but I cant stop reading this Buzzfeed article telling me the 5 best lines from Crimson and Clover


M: Prolly skips like a *****.
Worth the risk.
It's curious, facts
When all I spit are spurious raps
I'm furious, Jack
Like I am jacks unbridled sound of fury since my patience is tried but with nobody on the jury
It's hard to define if I should be
Calm or Worried

P: My destiny is sittin right next to me, but I can't pick it up cuz it's too **** heavy.
I get a grip, my muscles rip, it's stuck tot he ground because I am Unworthy
How unfortunate that I made it all the way here, just to find out I can't lift up Mjolnir.

Or maybe it's a trick of the mind, I'm a victim of fear.
Maybe it's time to let my senses unwind and focus only on what is near.
It's time to make a profit off of what my prophet holds dear in his lockett, instead of settling for a Stepford Career.

Gouda is good, and Cheddah is bettah, but I'm to to make some of that Gruyere.

M: Gruyere, Camembert
List the cheeses til you're Jesus man,
Talking like you even know a lil piece of the Jesus man's plan.
I think if any of us knew it wouldn't even really please us fam,
Cause absolute knowledge is pain,
Actually growing is lame, and all we are is ever in between two planes of existence
So find the path with little resistance.

P: My prophet ain't Jesus, do you capiche this?
God's plan ain't nothin but a back-up like a clogged drain, or where the food came
that hadn't been chewed enough by the backward's spelling of the man himself.

D-O-G

Lookin for his bounty, but I'm a gatherer not a hunter
So you best expect that I'll be laid to rest in peace while you're still suffering from the disease of lying through your teeth.
Best BELIEVE!
Of my Philosophy, you can not conceive.
Whether or not you've thrown away your virginity doesn't decide whether you're imprisoned or free.

To be free costs a fee, but the sinnin is free.
It don't make no sense to me, so I consult my sensei who says to **** down a sasparilla, smoke some sensimillia, and tuck my head between my knees
Until the atomic wind has passed and I'm left to enjoy the cool breeze.
*******! Literally.
What if God was one of us?
He'd probably sob because of what he's done.
But with no consequence his reign will run.
Check the mic, make sure it's not a gun

M: Nuclear winter is chill boss
As your lawyer I need to tell you to lay off the pills boss put them ***** back in the pill box dude
all theology is toxic really and western ideology is very jesus-centric even though dude was basically just a fasting eccentric

Oops the mics been a glock this whole time and the safety broke long ago prolly round the time the patriarchy spoke up and plotted the embargos

P: Oh, well, I guess we gotta ditch the stolen cargo
Form something new and see hor far it goed
Don't be distracted by the hard blows, I mean, the blowhards
Look no further than your own hand to see if your success is in the cards.

**** WE NEED TO DO THIS EVERY DAY
WE'LL BE UNSTOpPABLE

I mean you're alread nine million miles ahead of my ***,
I've been cruisin in coach and blah blah first class
Similies and poetry are base to me
I want to talk about philosophy in non-interpretable terms make the common people squirm in their nikes
Only a capitalist society can bring true revoltion, but the truth is no one really wants it even the revolutionaries are scared of what change do they want enough trainers so they can change shoes and listen to the blues to feel like feeling is real when it's really just a memory of something unlearnable.

P: Hey Nike, he likes it
Oops, I blew it,
I meant Just Dew The Dew it.
Obey the corporate propaganda, don't see through to the blue skin dudes n ****.
Throw them Locs on

M: Someone ******* **** me already cause I can't do it by myself
Cause I don't do illegal ****, I keep my trophies on a shef
In the basement in a house that nobody but the bank owns
Let me get some dank loans so I can open up a bank, holmes

Don't burn me, I'm tryin earnestly to fix ****
I don't believe in magic but I believe in possibility
which I guess is really just the same thing as magic when you get down to it
I'm trying to draw a circle on a chalkboard and jump right through it
I went t the school of truant bibliophiles the curriculum:
wild the teachers were posters of feral beasts with logos and copyright laws
I bet Gandhi quotes are trademarked, you dumb Marxist

P: Holmes, like the detective, but people never give enough respect to the perspective of the Watson.
Just give me that watch son, and keep on walkin
Betta hope I got all that I want, son, and don't decide to shoot you in the back and split you open like a sidewalk crack that'll give your mom a spinal tap when you cross it.

All you hear is a cocked back gat and then a BOOM BOOM BAP like the bass drum got brought back to like 2011
While your soul decides if heaven is really worth it,
Then your spirit will snap back into your body like nothing ever hurt it.
Rebirth it.

M: Like D.C did that
I'm post P.C. syntax
I bet I'd be a great dad screaming **** WHITEY cause white people hate that.
But that was actually a bad move making white folks uncomfortable
Cause more than half them reverted back to their most basest racist tendencies like two fold
Like who really holds the reigns really,
The work force is the horse and I'm a philly
Green is the universal race. Do you feel me?

Greed is the color of your mother's eyes while she hears the news on the phone of how your brother died cause otherwise it's your corpse of course you knew this already.

Anyways whatever man it's all pretty whatever man
Just be nice to people cause it's just better man.

My life was an imagery
with so many similies...
The scenario it created
made it a romedy...

My life was an irony
with so many illusions...
Wrong motifs were understood
It became a tragedy....

My life is an oxymoron
with so many paradox...
Care for nothing
but everything disturbs...

My life is a tragic-comedy
with so many dramas...
no foreshadowing
but the flashback hurts....