I'm a whisper of the wind

The poetry in motion

The fluid from a pen

That's lights up when I'm flowing

 

A bubble blowing Ballston Spa poet

A walking paradox

Talking to myself a lot

In the parking lot

 

Nineteen-years-old

Cold and alone

Writing hip hop poems

In tip top form

 

With each stressed verse

Blessed from a curse

Time spent rehearsed

Never enough to place first

 

As competition thickens

And each verse written

Forever represent and impress

Through illness and sickeness

 

So what you can expect

From little rest and depression,

Is a poet at his best

Under stress and pressure...