These are the skin and bone of my mind

These are the heart and soul of my core

I don’t just write poetry to throw around some flowery anecdotes

I’m like a lyricist with the fire of a flamethrower

A spirit floating on the ocean floor

Dormant until the volcano roars

But I don’t just write words

I don’t just play for poetry

I live it

I love it

I breathe it

I don’t beat to it, I’m not a beat poet

I don’t jam to it, I’m not a singer

I speak it, I read it, I commit to it

Haven’t found my muse yet.

I faltered when I thought I did

Spit blind lines of love like cocaine through a straw type shit

And I bled love like a wrist cutter

Wrote it on my knees and my elbows,

– why did I lose love?

– what did I do to deserve pain?

– why won’t anyone love me?

Started doping up on rhymes

To define my soul

My black lies

My white ties

Of something that could’ve been but wouldn’t become

Accepting myself as a poet with a feisty tongue

Lapping at golden letters

Shot from an unmanned gun

Finding hygiene in verses with my curses

Hexes on that motherfucker

like lipstick on my plump lips

Plugged to the wire of a mic

Under bright spotlights

I don’t spit fire.

I put it out.

Water.