Poetry that's apart of me, in depth in my speech, I'm the culture an orator of edges that's steep,

In levels of life I walk the line of sacrifice, an artifice of word, mural of curbs.

I'll only be what's inside of me, still defining the sign language of life it's deep.

in some creeks the razor blade is under the tongue, right next to the silencer of a socialist gun...

Who said the beast don't speak..I hear him in the pulpit, at the vatican, the oval office of priests...being policed in streets that design the situation and blame for keeps..I'm the begger and consumer, the maverick thief.

When 3's company your layed in the sheets next to Suzanne with a diet of grief..Sommers of heat, should of packed it with me, this the type that leaves a brain empty... A freestyle in the meanwhile still saying ooh chile'

reminicing about how my dude got sent to the p nile..


Corner the market, doggy ear the page, upperdeck let's trade a shade of aid. Coming of age, blueprints are laid over the craze, Frankie and Beverly maze, what did the industry trade, when the sentence is paved

Foundation of stains overlayed for caves, that stayed brave in a capital day. I'm a Capital these days, a nation unpaid, and it pays to stay focused in frames.

Severence is siren, sighing over the sighing, and the iron that burned the shirt is the one that plugged I in.

Selfless, put more self in it, keep getting jerked off like a converted nun. You don't want none, besides the idea was just run

I aint the one, I just put the I in to show the shell of the gun.

It had 6 sons and sparked on 3 suns don't ask for a light son.

entrance of a portal when the calvary is done...

Let the illustrator and the narrator offer the condiment drum.


copywritten