I’ll never stop as long as there is rhythm left in my mind.

Falling to temptations, I’m like a big fancy

racing car without any demonstrations.

Magicians reminiscing through my mind like fiction,

I hope this isn't realistic; because I’m pretty sure that I was gifted.

Let the lyrics flow like a musician,

sicken by his touch; he acts off of his addictions.

 

I swore litigation was a word of secret,

something behind closed doors and that you wouldn't keep it.

Yet when he plays his flute, his words are driven by emotions,

something that can’t be infatuated because

its drenched in this acid called passion.

He reaches deep within side,

tearing at fresh wounds sewn by stitches; it begins to itches.

He pulls his guts out, reaching for a tissue;

only to see words written on it like issues.

 

Clouded by his judgment, the pain starts to infect him.

The infection spreads towards his a rectum,

leaving him only seconds upon impact;

yet in fact he lays on his side only to comply with his hand to suicide.

He clutches his ribs with the last ounce of breath,

grabbing at his neck; he utters the word “best.”

With the last ounce of strength he wrote his last melody,

a creation that wouldn't be over looked.

Saying that his theory always seems like a mystery,

now leading to a minor symptom of something we call creativity.

 

Hoping that his desires don’t lead him to misery,

a non-alcoholic contraction written down in history,

and yet he’s contrasted in depression;

hoping that he doesn't nose dive deep in his silhouettes of his infections.

He's fathomed by the massive weight of creativity,

only now to linger upon affection and yet wouldn't that

be the greatest confession upon simply adolescents.

Screaming at sound, he slowly mind fucks his solutions and

yet he’s subjected as a simply peasant influenced by those of lessons.

Yet you claim you’re an artist confused by your own undoing’s,

then saying that you blackout when it comes to music.

 

I feel the vibrations of the delusional serpent; then again this can’t be;

I must be facing the paranoia of picking my new musical melody.

Something of a code, honor, and a partnership of highness;

giving me those hard nights of heroin and then begins

the sweet release of aggression towards my infections.

Tighten at the forearm;

I begin to tap three times for suggestions of my injections. 

Having paragraphs of phrases written on my back of confessions,

I contracted myself in ink; leading to a map of captions. 

I take my last tap at my extension,

slowly pulling at its trigger and

slowly but surely my last melody becomes extinct.

I just only wished that in the future,

that posture of elegance stays distinguished among these so called geniuses.