My open Worded Wounds, bleed the blood of unspoken lies and unheard cries, while I lie in a sea of confusion, going delusional as unseen faces appear, as brutal events reappear, while I try to decipher, decode my unknown's known,
you see, As I travel through a land of deception, I try to figure out who I am, but this ain't no ressurection, my obssesion for perfection is infecting my mind, my minds lost in the subliminal vortex of time, not lost in the sense of where I am but who I am and where we are, meaning in which point of time we are in I thought I knew sometime before, but this is now not then, you see I feel unable to write a poem anymore,
I remember once upon a time poetry used to give me life, it gave me courage, it encouraged my nonsense lotta sense, straight-forward poems locked up deep down in my dome, it opened my eyes, showed me the lies, the lies right before my eyes
It's crazy how I write myself to sleep, but my mind is still awake trying to articulate, make sense of my words that are debating about which poems they should be in, yo, I'm under so much stress and the only relaxation I have is to cut my wrist, I make my open worded wounds bleed the blood of my unheard cries, I don't know how I f***ing live my life, how I live my life writing for slam poetry type S***, this s*** is ligit, you see it's hard for me to say the stuff that goes on through my mind because my words are stifled, stifled behind the chloroform of life and through out my whole life there were people that told me the pen was mighter than my fist...
That's straight bull-s***, cause it's my fist that guides my pen, and its my wrist that bleeds my life onto my paper, and its my heart that gets hit with the pain a little later, the pain of being denied a spot or slot, how I always feel that I ain't to good, how I always feel there ain't nothing for me, how I always feel like "f*** it I'll never be better than what they say about me,
My heart is about to do a flatliner type s***, a beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep type s***, my death long and painful type s***, I'm lost in my eternal sleep type s***,my eternal sleep caused by an eternal blood leak, my poetry was the one that reaped, grim reaped me dead while my mind still busting out poems that will be unread, thats why I say F*** slam poetry, F***, you, F*** him and her, and most of all F*** me, for trying to be more than what they say about me
(not finished)
I was alwas trying to go somewhere with that first stanza, and after the urban word it just poured out, I couldn't keep up with the words and had no time for proff reading, tell me what you think
ReplyDeletewhat the fu*k is this?!!! Way-J!!! You seem like you lost hope in poetry or something. But i guess there's always a point in life when you do lost hope and pretty nice to record it.
ReplyDeleteADVICE:
1) Fu*k the word fuck*ng and the word sh*t. Use em if you want too but that much! Plus, i always loved your poems because it seemed to me like you never needed curses or profanity to express yourself. I'm not saying to empty out your poem of curses, it's just that you don't seem like the poet who would use fuck*ng like 3 or 4 times.
2) Continue it.