I want to be more than rich
I wish to be dipped in experiences where only Gods can be witnesses.
Where my spirit can remain intact.
Where a rhyme is the LEAST I can wrap
my arms around..No trap.
Just the struggle to fit of my grip around something way bigger than any poem I’ve ever spat.
I spit for the days I feel my HIGH-EST
I spit on the ground to clear my throat.
My identity is my words in ink on sheets.
is the reason for the black of my lips.
I spit Poetry to flee
but the taste of Sweet?
I notice that with my tongue.
It leaves me in doors all day writing of how I chose to run.
HOw to chose to fled
like obstacles to hurtles I chose to jump.
And lately the days have been treating me like it’s all dandi-
but I’m a lion
because of too much pride
I don’t make sense
but all I can do is taste
and see me
relying on lies to get me high.
(I finished this but I’ll only recite it…not write it. )