this was my verse for the SS championship.. thanks to those who voted on it and gave feed.. I'd like to see what others think of it though!
Clockwork Lemons
By: Cry
They're all ready, Go! that mic in my hand is already known
to a pair of lips, so to speak.. that are following hope..
and they call to me; gloat! because these wannabe's boast -
but I'm a superstar here 'til I cross the street, so..
when all of these lemons start by calling me home,
my past will be the last to ask 'cause it already knows.
it already..
Knows that everyday's at the top, every brain has been lost..
in a way that's mistaken, placed my name in a cross,
fame is the cost.. I've tried to break it and toss -
each flame in the garbage, yet these flames just get hot,
so I replace them with heart.. arteries burning,
and playing with fire's just what this part of me's yearning,
carving and curving, putting veins to the test..
pumping words in all directions to fill the space in my chest,
putting placement to rest.. I've found a formula that suits me,
and usually I'd win the race in this portion of the movie..
poor you? please! poor me, I've forgotton the object,
got a blotch in the content where I'm jotting the nonsense,
I've gotten lost in the topic.. and you're obviously snoring,
wanting content and story when these qualities bore me..
and so the hobby is torching.. yeah, back to the flame -
because a thought CAN'T repeat.. nah, man that's insane!
now I'll have to be crucified so ya'll can laugh in my face,
stuck up there like Jesus.. attackin' the blame...
but...
I won't latch to this waste, unless there's nothing but sorrow,
I'll just concoct up a piece for the second coming tomorrow,
suggesting something is borrowed, but I'll never give it back,
I'm not a biter, just writer.. one with clever wit n' tact...
severing the facts and cutting down the genes of writing,
until my mind spoke to the keyboard n' found that we were fighting,
so crying, I swore to it by lying.. "I'll never write unless it works!
unless the way was never written!!" (as I was typing up the words)
lighting up the curve, shooting it straight into the mitts..
of a catcher who was reading but never claimed to give a shit,
chewing grains until they're split, so all too often on the top is..
the sunflower seed... a scrawled up concept of a concept,
one way too novice for an offence, to be defeated; lost in margine,
waiting for the wolves to come and feed upon it's carcass..
the people reaping all the market, selling to non-adults and critics,
those guys that read the writing but are all too often dimwits,
to steal from the pockets they were lit with, it's a hard way to fall,
because the writing in their pieces came from our grains of salt..
They're all ready, Go! that mic in my hand is already known
to a pair of lips, so to speak.. that are following hope..
and they call to me; gloat! because these wannabe's boast -
but I'm a superstar here 'til I cross the street, so..
when all of these lemons start by calling me home,
my past will be the last to ask 'cause it already knows.
it already..
Knows.. these kids are black and blue, dismissed by habbit -
doomed; to be kicked and laughed at in every niche they grab at,
this shit's a grab bag.. where on a whim, originality's lost,
'cause anywhere in the future, individuality costs..
spittin' now will be stopped; your hearts dipped in shredders,
and by 2032, Souljah Boy's are written better..
'cause poison's in the letters.. toxic waste leaks into paper,
and soon, it'll never be original despite the ways you read it later,
copy/paste is the remainder.. so simply cower by in fear,
'cause we're forever clockwork lemons, getting sour by the year.
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