To fine for my description, yet woody remarks
captures a glimpse of my innocents they call an image.
I figure the compression releases its pressure on my trigger,
as I slowly drift away on my one-piece hitter.
Buff in size, yet feared in deception;
I guess my height has left a different impression.
I turned my back on my stature,
as a man renders my possessions;
yet in fact I’m an artist stolen from his collections.
As the black ink runs down the paper
describing my treasure of affections,
I’m a pioneer in words meant to teach lessons.
Yet one touch of my connection, will leave you wanting more prescriptions.
I’m like a bucket list that never stops wanting,
as my shades of color fade due to time;
I collect the compassion of intellectual minds.
Yet see my figures of speech are worst than life’s expectations,
because the snow melts while leaving
behind the impression of incompletion; so I remodel and relabeled
the color white as a unlimited supply of creations.
See my poetic gifts were missing a title,
a name to leave behind my claim on its distinction.
So I reframed and redefine an image that was
used for its insecurity of its impurities,
only to see a name meant for mythology; I disguised myself as Mafi.
Now fear is nothing without deaths consumption,
but I’m a man without fear of the truth;
I see clearly what must be done to be a
role model that must be questioned.
Yet see I have no answers to
your questions as you ring my doorbell,
because I’m a legend left decades in man’s wrath, in man’s image,
and their infections of their confections.
As time goes on, my words will be the only significant impressions to your homicidal corruptions.
They call me Mafi,
a whisper that only can be listened to:
yet can’t be answered or questioned…