my words are put to shame, at times. grimace of a smile. but the nature, is to better, any other in this game. the aim is to topple all, puncture their ball and stand tall, on this pile of other artists.
prancers, in the midnight light, that think fickleness can impress. this should interest, those better then me. if true, state your name and prepare to be driven insane as I will wrap words round your membrane. only condolence is, your empty space will stay nice and warm, as my sentences swarm in your ear, and blow what little you know, clean out of the water.
I don’t want to put a dampener on your spirit. ill give it. im not that good, but under this hood is a mechanical wonderland, that spits vocab for breakfast and then snacks on your mushy gizzards.
through all this, arts the winner. we the writer, a major sinner, as we fumble for the next rhyme and or reason. we commit verb and noun treason, as we re-arrange the infrastructure that collaborates with our minds sound and so as we spin on this never ending, merry-go-round, ill pound you to the dirt, with my insightful lines. my tremendous, under-qualified mind and set fire to the pages, you haven’t even writ yet.
but if I did this, id pass on miraculous remedies, that’ll fix your shit and would lead me, to a big tumble and fall. and after all, why would I do that? a sardonic twist to my good nature, might cripple this fighter of words and grammar. its the only time I could possibly win as im rarely a fist swinger.
so ive pitched my weapon up against the pages margin, and into the bargain, a rubber. my mascot, as I write in pencil. but I could still stencil in your defeat, with our battle of words. the ergonomics of it all, would mean I miss out on profits of the pocket, but my morals will rocket up so fast, im clinching the edge of the space-craft, via my fingernails.
ive caught the breeze, without sails and my ship is going knots. so my friend, my literature enemy, take heed as we wage war on one another. my brother, lay down your pen, this is one battle you’ll never win. just accept your my squire and im the champion knight. exquisite at wordplay. my pencil’s my sword. my paper’s my shield and with this I will wield all the letters I can, to demoralize the hater’s and nay-sayers.
in principle, my fight for success is worth something. so I press you for your stance. will we make world war three or use our words to save the breath of humanity? or capitulate it into a debauchery of insanity?
art is still the winner, and we are still the sinner, as we act like congress. baboons, not the American government, with faces as red as our bums. the funs in the sharing and enlightenment of others, not the tragic solitude of wizened ideas, left unknown.
I am not a silent poet 