Love in Poetry Part 2

Will you be a midnight fling in the studio by the sea, or will you be my true love to be
Because I’ve never seen the girl of my dreams
I’ve never felt true love so my heart is young and immature
And I’m waiting to truly feel alive
By the waves of the universe
Watching a thousands suns set with you at night
Saying hello to the future

Am I a brute, or a king?
Because the way you look then is cute, you could be my queen
All these words together to way out my odds

Is my craft what keeps me the way I am?
Or will I sail in the sea to see what I was created to see
Lies spread like wildfires in my mind

I yearn to study your rhythm 

Battle Cry

This is the life under thunder storms, uppers like lightning and downers like Grunge Tic-Tacs

Those banging their heads to Kurt Cobain with their feet up in an upper class cul-de-sac

We live to learn the conscious expression is whack and society carries around flack because now being fat is worse than being black

Soak in the poison and believe in lighter days and lights at the ends of dark tunnels, believe that the chants and battle cries of a generation of that make believe that a brighter day shall come, as we burn Mercedes and thousand dollar tees

Beauty is only what you perceive

We rise with swords and guns as mother earth grieves

The noise drifts away and so do autumn’s leaves; it is we who should flee the smog and the desolate black clouds

The stories read aloud to children are corporate mechanisms and your sex life is a euphemism

The young boy plots revenge with slits on his wrists while his brother is in the next bar getting pissed

We fell in love with an antonym, waiting for the horns, flutes and the rest of Gabriel’s orchestra to begin

 

They sing and sing, buildings fall to the earth, but some could say this is a good start

the beginning, the birth without a hand held camera in sight

The wraiths write and the flickering lights from human indulgence splashes onto the scene like a bat out of hell

His words are hate out of heaven, we try to escape life unscathed but we lost so much time that we can’t find seven or eleven

We lost so many memories stored in the back of a machine

Your smile is that of a backwards gleam,

We don’t believe in family, don’t believe what’s said

What the fuck you going to do when you cut yourself and they criticize how much you bled

Fall back into the universe your peripheral blood red

The protest and the songs of the dead condone the joke and what we don’t know

We pray to a god and its divinity

We’d die for what we haven’t seen, just to fall from infinity

 

In a million years?

We’ll be happily searching through thousands years of rhymes and slime, but we go on searching line about you and me, we search for the crack of lightning that lets you understand an epiphany

Misspelling your future, we have an app for that

Talk back to the battle cries of a generation, will result in a crack or a slap

The greatest consumers of all, born into the era of crack

Hypocrites rendered into a higher place

The joke is that none of them know who they are at all

Small, skinny, black, white or tall, technology killed the Trojan horse as the entire history falls

We philosophize whilst snorting the purest lines

Party in South London while listening to grime

From every fight to all mankind, tessellate in their tirade, the art is that we laughed at all and the only crime is that they never allowed us to fall

My Explanation!

You are created inside the chamber of life, the offspring of love….
Maybe…
Or you could be the bastard child, or maybe feel like one
Nothing is right, and nothing is wrong in this world
It is all up to opinion, as we are made of opinion
One can get themselves killed with such sardonics
With your favorite songs on rotation
And your past is something you only see when you dissociate with reality
Am I abnormal because i lay bedshaped by the stars and the sky
Or the plight all to accumulate to the very day we die
You can cry, but the cancer might come
And you can run but not hide, because that’s the way my greatgrandaddy died
Wartimes are always around, because we are militant about making money
Pray to our ancestors, that we don’t make the same mistakes
Tell me something beautiful, whisper your lies
Because i’ve been around and i’ve seen death, destruction and vigils in the night
But the trick is to find enough love to at least mask at least a quarter of the plight
Explanations that are out of sight for the millions of deaths that we could avoid
I write as I deliver gun shots like pretty boy floyd…and download an app and the idea to help other flushes down like a piece of crap
But what can i do except be a good person, and get rid of my books because they’ve got to much cursing
Now i’m learning to be much more likable, now how’s it working?

Self Titled

I walk around like I still have a bullet encased in my chest

As I looked around I began to notice I’m nothing like the rest

The conversation has started and so has my test as the man of an hour

Used verbs loosely like a slip knot but now my rhymes are stone sour

Looking for more respect, more money and more power
It’s nice to meet you too but…

I wasn’t a born sinner and neither were you

I grew up watching blues clues in private schools oblivious to the rules of the hard knock life

Somebody once told me they’d eat me up, but now I’ve got a pot belly to display my strife learning in a white paradise
But I’m on my way to having a trophy wife, smoking a pipe dumping ashes on your plight, to display my delight

I may not go to hell but the devil is going to set me on fire, but I bet I can match his flames and I already trumped his desire

Pills made me do stupid things, in search of flings playing a misguided youth  

Times we didn’t have electricity and my landlord didn’t throw us out

It’s a blessing that we are still under this roof

And it’s a blessing to be part of this conglomerate, you guys are hot like the bombs I spit and the adjectives I shout 
Now I speak my clout and the devil has me here to be sincere when my disses go through your ears 
My fears don’t coincide with your lies, hopes and fears

I used to wipe away my tears with a switchblade, now I’m getting paid channeling prophecies of a rendezvous to Dade 
Underplayed in the game, underlaid but that will change with a little fame 
Shall I stay sane, hardly

As I stumble down the stairs and my veins take speedballs worse then Chris Farley

No i spit speedballs with a side of Parsley 
Burning Ferraris high as fuck on life, stay away from drugs but I don’t rule out the hashish pipe

I go star slight in a park fight and now I’m bed shaped getting my nose shaped
To flex my muscles in front of this crowd with my mouth taped

To prove a point without saying a damn thing

Anthony Day Grandin, that has a decent ring

 

 

 

 Imageoem, 

Christmas for a Conscience Man

I’ve gone over the side of the cliff
Happiness on Christmas, I’d drink to that but i’m underage so instead i have a spliff
Society is like that with mixed messages
But give me a whiff of christmas dinner and I’m in

I’m the type to help Santa save christmas and then make a thousand dollars off a poetic hit list
But let’s not brag, because soon society will have Santa worrying about his physical fitness
But let’s enjoy time with family and try to keep our sanity
Watch a movie, eat some food and not worry about which bill collector will sue 
Rudolph the Red Nose reindeer was never better then when they were supposed to turn off the cable
But now it’s on and i can write this little christmas fable
See christmas isn’t about corporate mechanism on a polluted city skyline 
It’s about your design through time, to create a holiday where you spend with people with love

So release dove and give the loved one you hate a hug 
Love can come from all the pain, and on this happy holiday
You have so much to gain

12 Hour Shift on Christmas

x

I’ve bent but won’t break for goodness sake, just chilling on a stake with my middle finger up covered with chocolate cake 
I couldn’t see myself falling to be honest, but it’s true that during extreme violence i still got what’s good

Gun to my head and it’s not even lyrical, the gunman looking hysterical as i grabbed the gun from him to show him how to do it correctly 
I’m evil, the other day i was possessed by money and now i’m just going on ahead 
I didn’t shoot myself dead i brought myself alive
I know you don’t think i can thrive, that i’m just a monster

I’ve had a future on a few occasions and I’ve forgotten thoughts that are better then what you publish
I’ve become arrogant but it’s all a class act, class clown fuck around and i’ll put you like Sasha Grey, Space Bound

I’m sorry but you can’t ball at this level especially since your so settled
Changing speeds at an honest rate through modern poetry, while banging my head to metal

You have to be at least a little demented to do this, at this level? Yeah

Writer’s Block

Writers block is an affliction, i voyaged downstream to conflict my addiction. I dropped it like a bad habit, i blended animation with reality like Roger Rabbit, then threw in animosity to be emphatic. The writers block kept me in a straightjacket, humming a tune. He’d feed me once in a blue moon.

So i sat in the corner, creating a masterpiece in my head. The block struck my idea dead, and i cried for hours, i heard the ringing of the aecidic showers. The depressed apologist in the shadow of a high tower. I saw no flowers, or any beauty, my brain fought back but the block forced mutiny. I observed the waves of social regimes, i watched as the upper echelon prowled. I handled my heart by my spirit growled. It was time to write, Die or Fight. Take these clouds to an ominous sight. and build narrative around pure spite. Sprinkle the future with seeds, i wanted to watch something grow while my spirit fed upon the poetic dictator. A caniving self induced player hater.

So i built and i planned, the drive of fire never left my hand. The chains hurt my gaunt leg, that night was the worse because i was forced to plead and beg. Who the fuck said life was easy, the difficulty level continued to rise enough to make any punk queasy. I was born a wordsmith, assassinating every obstacle with my whimsical gift. This was my honor, my pain, and glory. I weave hate and love into a beautiful story, with a cruel end. As the world crumbles, ill leave my live to send.

It was sunrise and i opened my tired eyes. The sun shined a light on my fears, on the tears of a lost and dying soul. But my grandma taught not to listen to bullshit, so i tore off my ear. I was covered in blood, warmed my motivation of a savage improvisation. Its mud before the trophy above, the war came before the flock of doves. I pulled my leg from the chain, gradually leaving behind a past that was so bleak. Im Grandin, minutes, hours, days passed by i stand by my crash landing.

I was gone, the prison walls were burnt with my prototype heart. I had my armor and my pen, motherfucker Im ready to start. I wrote a symphony, comprised of jubilant lyrics and a falsetto heretic. I created an entity, my name is Grand in nature, so just call me the Brotha man. I had an epiphany, I love you, you love me, this world evolves, everyday there is more to see. I visited guilt’s grave while keeping every sweet memory I could save. Writers Block had an upper hand, Yo, im ambidextrous. This is a Statement

Generations

The crowd gathers to watch her desecrate herself 
She cries in the moonlight
Trying to keep her head, trying not to get hurt
The scars of last night join the rest and stand out 
The bar is set so high, that she can’t even reach 
Life is a monster that looks like a beach 

Coming to your own in a new life
High praise and souvenirs 
White lies with so much to fear
She grinds and gets away, so much in her life that she wish she could redo 
Undone on pills, liquor in the pit of the pile
Bad times to pass out, so many times she woke up black and blue

So many times that she wish that what she saw wasn’t true 

Slow Songs

 

The Worst words became dust in the wind, the last smile came seconds before the end

Moving my body to music that’s not playing, but it’s in my head

Slow songs play while they embalm the dead
Slow Songs in memory like a Pop Star’s distant future

I used to be a good boy but then i was corrupted by these slow songs

Turn my head, turn toward the winter sun

You’ll find hope in it one day