rap

***This was an experiment to see how quickly I could come up with a rap***

i get sick of using rhymes

but i get sicker of biding my time

until my cracking mind

collides into another line

and here i am at my feet

screaming never mind

screaming i lost the beat

when i never lost the time

i find it easy to be

stuck in solidarity

swallowing clarity

like it's 90 proof whiskey

vomiting up my soul

all the words i can't let go

stuck inside my skull

with no space to grow

poisoned from the sun

the hollow burning's just begun

because when i rip apart my rhymes

it stops becoming fun

it just really needs to be done

like a bullet from a gun

my words that fire

just transpire

from the clicking on my tongue

the rhythm's not a game

it's just a bullshit way

for me to finally say

that at the end of the day

i don't really know what the hell i'm saying

i'm sick of these games i'm playing

because all the words

that attack me first

are the same words that i'm praying

so i sit quietly on this throne

and ask god to leave me alone

to my thoughts burning my bones

till nothing's left but coal

just quietly recede

into something less than me

then maybe the words

will take their swords

and just let me be fucking free

Mad Like Beethoven

rain runs in heavy drifts along the side of the road

white spittle mixed in between inconsistent streams

it's soap

as if someone took the concept of a rainwater baptism

just a little bit too seriously

it's one of those days where the rain

is a double edged sword and speaks in little riddles

i hate riddles

still

i've become accustomed to the hollow men

the men made of lead and poetry

kinetics crashing into poetics

crashing into my skull

leading me to believe that words are weapons

and the magazine rack is the glass case

holding the shotgun locked away

whereas i

i dream of wartorn pages

ripped from my leather bound books

and all my leather worn appendages

i speak of nothing

because i'm biding the time

the ticking seconds backwards

into devolution

where the revolution is spring loaded

behind the firing pin in the base of the gun

pressed against my literary teeth

screaming in sickle shaped screech

verbal homicide

most mornings i wake up

and agree with the sun and dying grass

in my suffocated backyard

that the time i spend ripping the skin from my muscles

to understand the mechanics of my blueprinted soul

might be better served painting over the tattoos

i carved out of the Apple

seeing as how it's knowledge was in fact

simply skin deep

but then again

i hate riddles

and have become deaf to the tone

of the rain baptizing the asphalt

your smile is a shotgun

made up of fragmented bits

of something i consider to be beautiful

the blast against my chest

in time with the pounding of my tattooed heart

leaves me useless

and with life in me still

Killing Rosebuds with a Gentle Fist

i'm the product of ambient sound
i make this decision sitting behind white screens
in a room hotter than i'd care to know
clicking mixed with the ripping apart of music
rebuilt into art
or something like it
i stopped being sure
i'm alien to this city
dirty and splitting at the tips of its hairs
beauty hidden behind the constant murmur
this was paradise once
this was paradise once
this was paradise
once
it's like a dream
woken from being awake
and you begin to realize
this place never really was yours
the awkward moment
when your lips kiss the pavement
and you're asking what happened
to making love to the sun and the moon and the stars
all at once
what happened to cacophony of a hollow spirit
screaming for something she couldn't quite get a hold on
what happened to you

this room is hotter than i'd care to know
my skin is melting into cigarette burns
and liquor stains
i've become the antithesis
this place was never really my own