I aint’ never been part of a high class society

The thoughts that crave within me,

Blearing out with animosity

Breathing in the fresh-scented Musk, that’s

Broken.

Calligraphy-

The fundamental process;

Always running,

Called a nigga, me?

The ink bleeds out-

Poison running through

Morphin’ to

Orphans who,

Are subservient to this outlet

The speech in broken letters-

Dripping black from dead fathers.

Broken.

Through depressant prescription

Creating life-

For this white addled addiction-

Might just

Fight the lust

With hands that clutch onto this microphone

Despite the names that run around our atmosphere-

This height I’m on-

Is-

Broken.

Poetry, the flow of feelings curled into the air ducts of school

When they mock you; vociferate that you is ignant-

Steppin on your steppin stones

Smeared up and down your pigment.

You aint’ nothing but words that shaped itself onto the computer screen

Blarin’ BROKEN.

Words mingled together counteracting the balance-

You broken. You ingant. You aint’ nothing.

Poetry aint nothin’ but cute words laced together with needles

Coated blood.

In love with pain and torture.

These words don’t mean nothing to me.

But I mean everything to the words that

Click. Click. Themselves onto the keyboard.

Disregarding the fact that:

I aint’ never been apart of a high class society-

Should have been-

I have never been apart of something so beautiful as poetry.