Check In: Tuesday.

Verses: Thursday.

Alright, The Rules...

16-48 Line Limit...

No Bullshit...

Topic: Tangled Web

Checking In.
Good to see the league's back.
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Looks like a no-show.
I wrote this morning, became disatisfied.
Forgot for a few hours. Remembered now.
Posting.

I dangle in my hide-away for sometime, waiting to see what flies by to entice my insides/
But in a world where planes strike spires, despite my strive, what are the chances of me staying alive?/
Where legions lean on liquor to keep inspired/
How can I avoid the scared screams of children, and loved ones calling me a liar?/
Strands can’t take the tension when demands make the suspension bend/
One by one they break and weave onto their creator, left to bereave his fallen empire/
The victim of life’s conundrums, the pondering on whether to stay hum-drum or be likened to none/
To crawl ahead of time, cut in line, of those closest next to and before me…/
Spin my creative patterns of silk, or stay true and subdued with those genetically of that ilk/
Let it be…
My participation in riots on streets/
Is inhibited by social anxiety/
These impenetrable walls of inner-rivalry/
I’m sure I’d be lovin to know ya if not for this spider’s arachnophobia/
Self-supplied loathing that keeps me hiding, closed in/
Can yall pass the test, or shall you wait in line beside the rest?/
At abandoned sub-terrainian weigh-stations, waiting for a ride or searching in vein for my pride?/
Your lives embody a litany of lies—Hey! How big is the wait?!/
Just check the poundage; even scales fail at recognizing how much I impale/
The create through played sound waves/
There, I confess/
So I’ll never say I rhyme the best/
It does keep me far from lines & crystal meth/
It’s not so bad. . . having your life defined by text/
I live in memories; What you call cobwebs, I call my own personal safety net/
’82 til Infinity? Shit, Hopefully through 2003/
When you meet someone as hopeless as me: Let it be/
I’d like to get my mack on/
I just hope my hate is semi in jest/
Eh, get it? Rigged like a Volvo/
Oh no. . .
I love me enough to include that line/
One that’ll send me to the bathroom, tonight/
Beware, silverware. You keep the spoon, I’ll take the knife/
Newspapers make people weep as shoe soles keep repeatedly beating concrete; rights, lefts, rights/
I won’t be here the next time you come to speak, for you see: these things end spiders’ lives/

Fin.