Right now... I am captivated, lost and wondering what happened to this explosion in me? 
You see, I'm a lost soul captivating the edge of my well-being, the invisible seems of life that run through my veins. 
The storm over head and the tears on my window. 
Like a lost cause with a soul purpose, Like a butterfly born with no wings, a dog with no tail, a human with no face, a artist with no art. 
You see, The ink I pour on the faces of the ignorant, pride I express through my free will.
 The way I let loose my emotions and kept devoted to my spoken word's devotion. 
They say the way I speak hurts, the way I speak is sloppy, that I need more conditioning, that the way I speak had no moisture, the way I speak was a stiff, rough an irritated motion.
 I apologized that I forgot to rub the lotion on the faces terrified by the truth of I speak. 
That the love for my words is an understanding of life itself.
 My life words will graze you, injure you, burn you, kill you, like Ricocheting bullets... 
Inject over 3000 chemicals into your body that will make you forever see the dangers of me speaking after I blow the addicting smoke I breathe like cigarettes.
 I represent this piece, silence at my peace, violent with my piece, The ideal maddest, emotionally sick out of my mind, So drunk off my words, I can't even walk the invisible line.
 I'm the ideal maddest, the presidential status, eradicated to perfection, perfected to limited infatuation of my words, unbound to exaggerations of our words, killing the simplicity of the world, taking beauty to a new level for the girls.
 My words spin, twist and twirl a new hurricane of spoken word. 
I chop new meat, I'm a skilled rex, The stigma of my brain told me I have the unspoken lyrics. Because my lyrics lie behind my words and beyond my soul. 
The words you are hearing aren't the words you feel.
 That feeling in your stomach in heart, the thoughts in your head come from the surreal-ness behind the words I speak, and have spoken, the eyes I awake and have awoken. 
Yet you call that a piece, I call that boot-written, written while spoken, like a video camera in the movie theater, like yogurt to my ice-cream. 
My ceiling to the universe to your floor to hell, I summoned the explosion in me, your grenade to my C4; your blood to the way I bleed.  
 ...You knocked on the wrong door.....
 Poetics justices lubricating truth all the more.Agitated profiles, bound to no constellation of a analytic mind, unorganized files with no evaluation.But an evacuation of the sounds in my voice saying poetry is a lifestyle.All the words in sync to the compiling of thoughts and emotions, the ever less ever greens ever going the righteous words of the underlying perfection seeking, through the words I process through the ones I posses. I send words to be Breaking dawns to suck the flesh out of nights like Bella and her friends. Ascertain the antebellum words, my foreign language, ancient, old antiques vanquished, blended with the new accustomed art of the ascended.