’92, A Monster Was Born…

Repeatitive babble.
Rattlesnakes slither and bite through flesh that isnt mine,
For I,
was not the creator of my own life…

One morning I awoke.
My eyes poked holes into realities I wish stayed dead,
On the same bed,
Where my dreams lay,
It seems.
Where anger steams and blows marijuana smoke while boat loads of tears stream past my wounds no matter how bad they sting…

It’s all a hard fought journey isn’t it?
A road where admitting your mistakes open doors to new opportunities,
Through scrutiny.
Battles only the mind can see,
Darkness only the mind can seize,
With a simple switch
A ripple in,
The character you’ve cemented yourself as!
Now the riddle is,
can you refrain from crippling your legs with henny om the rocks,
Being cornered by the box.
And be your own ref blowing whistles in place of the head you were planning to get on the spot?

An age of addiction!
And I’m a part of it with each blunt I’m sparking instead of picking up a pen.
It’s as if I’ve locked myself inside of my own pen.
Locked in my own cubicle,
A loneliness irrefutible!
At least the devil makes me believe,
When I blink and see images I thought I’d never think…

Ink still splatters the page.
While drops of vodka join the freight of words I dance with on the regular.
Pain seen through sentences written in my own blood,
Taking action against demons toying with my emotions,
As I lay furiously…

At times you’re prompted to stop and wonder,
What am I really fighting against?
Is it for the same reasons again?
The flashbacks I lament?
The current waves of tears making ripple effects with the same hand movements?
Regardless if it is rhythm I’m spinning off of my finger tips,
Or the cups that I’m drinking to make a difference,
In the negative mind state that I’m living in…

I’m not tripping whatsoever.
I’m aiming ink in bold endeavors.
Cause I manifest anything I want past the trendsetters.
Mother fuckers smile in a suit,
Yet frown in designer sweaters.
I smile no matter what kind of weather,
Whether I’m sick of all the lies im the air,
Or done with disloyal bitches that don’t know any better…

At the end of it all,
I keep my pen sharp.
I have an ill focus when I’m trying to get far.
There’s a reason why I stay in my lane and engage with only myself when I spar.
Cause you might get cut from the page,
By a blade,
That’ll paint many scars on your name anytime I feel lost.
I find pleasure being that one rapper in the building that’ll cut your fucking head off...

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