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The more I write, the more I realize my poetry is just for me.
Insecurities wrapped in .5 lead seep through tress pressed and lines
I do lines-no I write lines simply for the thrill of the therapy.
See-
Daily I’m reminded of a debt I can’t repay.
Creditors calling, sending final notices of slam poems I can’t win
Cause my life’s first goal is past this pencil.
Separation anxiety lines my mind as the slam session ends
I may never match up with a minister
Or be as “maniacl” as the poet who’s pretty fly for a white guy
I guess since my color is red and not ruling shades of bluz
I can’t be true.
I could never earn tens among men who freestyle high scores
Or slam their future exes
I guess since the next slam will continue to both inspire and intimidate the hell out of me that you will never see me slam
But I refuse to stop writing
My tears will continue to flow as rivers
Water rows of lines of stanzas of poems
I may never be sick again, never be known
But at least I will stop myself from aiming knives and taking lives
Or raping the better halves of wives
Silly enough to let God’s Love Song play for their man.
Cause poetic intervention prevents GLS’s criminal intent against bullshit and Bush shit, and inconsistencies that make me sick
My cure is not found in a 9 mm, but in .5 mm lead
If it weren’t for the death of my inner Whitney
I wouldn’t be able to write freely
And the more I write, the more I realize
My poetry is just for me
Insecurities wrapped in .5 mm lead seep through trees pressed and lined
I do lines- no I write lines simply for the thrill of the therapy.
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