I spit this truth like
Old money in new hands
Like open wombs with stillborns
Like mouths agape and forgotten memories
I spit this truth like
Cold hearts with warm flesh
Like black bodies with no regrets
Like yellow spirits with gray auras
Like wrong
Like God
Like men's tongues
Like Devil
I spit this..
Fact:
60 percent of people can't go ten minutes without lying.
The truth is too much to handle.
It slides down their throats like cyanide, poisons their thoughts like biocide, clips their tonsils like avicide
Their lies keep them sane
Protect them from themselves
Build fortresses of solitude mile high and mouth wide to keep out the death eater, the murderous assailant, the devil in disguise
I hear he calls himself Candor now.
And his victims are terrified of muttering anything of the sort
He's got a vice grip on humanity
Only his fingertips are laced with so much power fear alone conquers his intentions
He is his own worst enemy because even the truth is a lie
His brother snatches tongues from tonsils with an ice cold grip
He numbs the bitter aftertaste of the truth
Highlights the gentle curve of the unspoken
His brother is comfort
I am comfort
100 percent of poets can't go five poems without lying
Over exaggerating, embellishing
It's in the name
We paint pictures of a paradise we've only seen in book pages
Preach stories of hell fire and trust falling when the highest we've ever descended from was our own expectations
We poets are a lie of our own
Sometimes we spit so much we forget the person behind the words
We forget that comfort isn't synonymous with poet
I spit this truth like..
Poet without mic
Like poet without pen
Like poet without sin
I spit this..
I spit this..
I spit this poet