sitting here thinkin
and thinkin...
and thinkin...
and thinkin...
thinkin of the right words to say
to sway your mind into thinkin that this is sum dope shit.
…not your average run of the mill poem,
I want Langston Hughes to quote this.
but its hopeless.
Cuz i can't think of shit to write.
all night Duel with a pad armed with pencil,
sketching and scratching as my hand becomes my trash cans eating utensil
feeding endlessly this bottomless pit
with each sheet of script I rip
the scene is suspenseful...
think.
scribble.
think.
scribble.
think...
SCRATCH-RIP!
In my room Mari, Juana and I kiss passionately
until the table side lamp transforms into a foggy sunrise
wasting time
trying to remember how to link thoughts to words and construct rhymes
but since this affair began,
Memory decided that she didn't fit in this relationship
so now she slips
off to somewhere distant tonight
And I'm stuck here trying to remember how to teach myself to think...
scribble.
scribble.
scribble.
SCRATCH!
so now I sit chin on hand mimicking the process of thought,
not succeeding in the actual action. I just hope this performance is bought.
by my mind that is,
and allow me to partake in such a thing
this is true suffering
a writer, with fully functioning muscle abilities unable to write.
not cuz he physically can’t but because mentally something aint right.
maybe its the lack of inspiration.…
so I grab a book and force words inside of my head
but instead, I read 3 sentences and forget the 1st 2 that I read.
Scribble.
Scribble.
as I'm writing random thinkings
in flashes blinking
strobe light like leaving stanzas sinking,
inking into the parchment
its been long since I've been able to start shit
-pause quick- to think
oh shit I lost it.
RIP!
right now It may be hard to notice, but know this
that somewhere in this sea of confetti is poem composed entirely of Dope Shit

LMAO, damn,how did i miss this dopeness, Featured~FLUID

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