I took another hit..
Said I wasn't gonna do it,
But I took another hit..
Bursted capillaries weaving veils of deep blood red in my eyes..
Papers of scribble and scrabble
that I dibbled and dabbled,
that constantly patronize..
My eyes..
My eyes that pour tears of desperation and leave my heart still astonished...
Astonished at the vast amount of tasks still not accomplished..
I was...
Coming down from my high faster than an unexpected summer kiss leaves a romantic sigh,
and your throat dry..
I'm thirsty.
Skin crawling like a fascinated infant crawls across a disheveled carpet..
in search of the wing of their fancy...
Well, right about now, I would fancy a fix..
And I will fervently and frantically find a fix to fix it..
I..
Needed to make moves.
So I do what I do...
As night falls, so does my heart..
But I muster up the courage and put my nerves in park..
I hear murmurs of excitement of my return in the background..
Murmurs shift to motivation, this was meant to be, I couldn't back down..
I'm ready.
I see my regulars;
Focused minds showing they were proud..
And just as I was about to perform my "tricks", there was an outburst in the crowd.
They said:
I've been conducting an...
Investigation of the dilapidation of your frame of mind...
And quite frankly I just can't understand "your high"...
Your elation, stupefied euphoric excitement?
Is no way of life and deserves an indictment!
So cry out now, Miss Cloud Nine!
Pleasure your regulars, but enlighten me too!
As to why I should bother enjoying an addict like you?
And I smile..
It is true, that I am an addict..
And it is true that I love this habit..
But before you encourage me to kick the habit I think you should ask me why I have it..
You see..
I get stoned from rhymes and rhetoric like aspiring ballers watch the NBA..
As cadence and composition together make the perfect play..
I get fried from lyrics of sweet honey dripping off of eloquent lips..
To pages they are shipped..
Causing a sway in your hips..
I am in love with haiku and lines of unorthodox pleasure..
Finding the underlying message like finding precious treasure..
I get slight eyed and blitzed, smashed and plastered,
from touching papers of those who have orally mastered.
My paraphernalia involves hundreds of pens just in case I need them..
Papers filled with the tales of The Slam just in case you wanna read'em...
As I look at my tales; noting the black ink turned into blue..
due to those days when "jotting" turned to "jetting" ideas across a sheet,
clothing naked pages who are more than pleased to be wearing the likes of my vernacular.
I am... an addict.
Addicted to flow and form..
Titillated by the applause I receive whenever I perform..
I am... an artist..
To you, artless..
But quite frankly, not respecting your opinion would just make me heartless..
However, not listening to your opinion is what makes me an artist.
You see...
I can't change the vision of the addict that you forcibly see in me..
But I'm standing here, unashamed to admit that I get high off of poetry..
And I smiled again..
I walked off without another glance of what I had left on the stage..
And let my imagination paint a picture of the scene based on the exclamations of praise..
So the next time I'm encountered as such, I know to never allow another lyrical riot..
I'll simply respond:
There's your mind. Here's a pen. A piece of paper. Wanna try it?