Making a page that will deliberately describe what I want to say.
I posted pics hoping that I get a like, so hit that silly button;
see I have those descriptions of little information’s,
but if you skip down to the bottom you'll see my comments of paper machete words.
Although I shall say, let me repeat my videos that I keep sharing;
yet I still get those likes and comments or those reposts of
jotted Dyslexia of misspelling words that my friends so often use.
See creations come from small components of ideas
but ideas don't just come from anyway, I just don't believe it.
Black simply docked metal of dark matter concealed of conspiracy,
written down in a little black leather book called Mafi.
A hard flat blackboard in the mist like talking words
written on it to be chalked up like thoughts of "why didn't I think of this."
Naw this can't be Facebook, but it surly is my page that
I've been describing from those first day kindergarten grade books.
Pics of me, pics of you, pixie dust of kindergarten rituals.
See all I see is false dreams, those colored clocks of time captured in a single click.
Those upside-down films or those funny reposts of "I wasn't ready."
See my favorite disguises was either Valencia or Earlybird,
yet I never could forget my partners in crime;
Nashville, Inkwell, and Hefe.
Just one click and we were all high,
all set in the people's eye as a prize.
See I was truly in a disguise, the masked cover of descriptions,
because I was a prisoner, a slave of pictures, a battered old frame.
I was a poet of many different names,
a person of so many words and yet I still can't seem to capture it perfectly.
I never truly knew you,
see I still rejected your purpose of twitting;
I vomit because I still refuse to use you.
Like crack and heroin on a whole different level,
a source of multiple injections and still can't get high enough.
A virus, I should call you aids but see you influence so many.
I used you to write with, your poison blinds my enemies,
and yet I still can't find myself in this
papered shredded world to hit the post bottom.
I always find myself writing it, but then deleting it.
Erasing myself in one click, one hit, one backspace kick.
Twitter you stupid Junkie, when will you learn to stop smoking that shit.
Yet see once again I'm a poet just simply writing,
see in this era you can call me,
Mafi the Pissed.
The voices of all words, the video of all plays, and the search of all times.
I'm YouTube in all-different forms;
I'm a video scratching the surface of noise.
Let me replay all those joys of things that use to make sense,
I'm an advertisement that you can't skip.
I'm a red and white hope of life and fame.
I am a spoken word poet, a driven hard backbreaking talent of work;
I can wrap my words and speak in ways your tongue doesn't know.
I am a poem,
I am the world,
I above all can see the truth.
I am the socially media,
Mafi of words.
I find myself watching, getting my laughs,
and yet I can't seem to find a way to leave this glass.
This small box of laughs,
a joker in a hot box waiting to be sprung from his cell.
A clown in a maze trying to reconstructed his identity
or a mine trapped in a box trying to get out.
I'm a vine completely running from my own two legs,
I'm a beast waiting to be slain and yet don't you know me?
I'm a drawn stick figure of amusement,
I'm a character trying to prove himself and
I’m a poet breaking all the laws of words.
Ps. Check my page out - https://www.facebook.com/MafiThePoet
Also hit the like buttom, lets make it a bigger thing than it really is; give back support and bring others too.