Coming from the bottom of the black gulch,
I battle with the devil to the end I'm raw,
lacing my mind in my notebook spine,
record needle on the edge of my eyes,
a vinyl vision of the artist's curse,
scratching every project cause I hate my words,
and I wish they'd burn in the flames I've earned,
scribble my rhymes just to find a verse,
another broken mirror in the blackened rooms,
land of the free where the demons shine through,
I spoke it three times under every broken light,
they stared at me and I stared at you,
grab the broom as you swept the gloom,
right under the rug, no light gets through,
you push for things, we push for change,
we're tired of being pushed into a cage,
encased in a place with abrasive time,
engraved in a blaze to invasive grime,
enslaved in a wave of adjacent slime,
depraved of a phase where the world is mine,
mine, mine, the worlds all mine,
in a long lost dream where the worlds not dying,
if I had it in my hand, and I had it back then,
well why can't I grasp any more than sand?
and I can't stand in wake of waves, that flood my home
in place of names, of people and their crave for fame,
the walking dead of modern days,
slam back shots of poisoned water,
getting caught in pointless laughter,
ruining a chance of a conscious moment,
caught in the web of their own delusions, ahh,
this insulting massive crime against the rhyme lords,
auto tuned into a line whore, stealing knowledge from
common core, it's the cigarette you lit, vendetta for,
the poison passed your lips, metaphor,
I'm losing the way that I look at the world,
for the world that I live in is killing me more,
in a way that a war would have worried a wart,
in a ward of insane, who wore an award, a warp
of classification, under the corrective political actions,
of laughing and passing the silence of action,
or drafting a massive reaction for the clash of the titans,
running from the devil in my own mind,
two left feet and I'm cursed to be tongue tied,
to these words with a dream of a good time,
but I first rehearse in the confines,
ball and chain, shackled in a led filled grave,
metal case, the river Styx is just a breathe away
and I've embraced,
turning off a motto let my head hang,
all amontillado in the brick drains,
kicking over drifts in a time frame,
then framed on the wall of a blank stage,
removing every smile off of my face,
scrubbing every memory of this place,
self-induced dementia with a hint of influence of,
damned, dark and damaged, every dank, dead end passage,
placing planks, in a pit of poisoned blanks, black and
branded, every trace, talking tonics, in a tank of toxic contents,
congregate, in my conscious, condensate to constant comments,
caught in a lucid dream, between the worlds of kings
and queens, insanely jousting jester themes,
into the seams of broken springs,
shrieks that the seraph streams,
upon the foggy seven seas,
assuming I'm another broken poet in a time where the
world is alive with zombies upon it,
can't you save me?