Deviate
A whisper: "when i write........"
Electrical signals spark across my neural pathways,
Sizzling in turn as they travel through the maze.
Words swerve through the terse universe,
Finding air - They gasp - Expanding into a verse.
Under the light I scribble - Formulate my rhyming riddles,
Annunciating each syllable and testing new audibles.
Excitement flows through the pen creating a link,
My very blood and soul extends through the ink.
The words that I release are my lease to life,
They have no purpose except to illustrate the strife.
My shadow moves across the paper as I etch my message,
Convey my rhymes through my lines imbelished by knowledge.
In this solitude I explain my crude attitudes,
Shed light on corruption through my rhyme latitude.
When you see my works you just see rhyming vocabulary,
But what is there is my time, soul and mental complexity.
As I sit writing alone in exile - I smile,
Focus over my paper and realise I've defined my style.
Because when I write rhymes I give my soul,
Stand amongst the best until my time tolls...
Na~Ledge
A whisper: "when i write........"
I let my pen's blood flow slow over ancient papyrus scrolls
Open ones mind, hoping my lines bare a reflection of my soul
Desend within my cerebral pools intent on excaviting a jewel
Illuminating in originality, unconfused with the gold of fools
Scribe eloquent verses to reverse an adored crafts crusification
Resurrect an polluted art, provide purification through diction
Depictations of non-fiction glisten within every passage framed
As well as my homage to encompass the essence of my name
Hip-Hop's presence manifest it's guidance over hands strokes
Plus I invoke dopeness from poetic ghost before I drop a post
Hopin to highten my skill to the identical status as ones will
Fufill my rhythmic quest to evolve into the personification of ill
Allow sub-conscience to converge with my intellectual wealth
What emerges from that insurgence is the definition of self
Which is food for thought for those mental under privileged
So I play the part of humanitarian until my skills deminish
Exibit my personal classics, to be critiqued by the masses
Thus allowing my mental vastness to live on as time passes
Unless my artistic mastery goes AWOL like deserting soldiers
In which case the opposite end of the pencil............
............................................permit s me to start over
Issue
A whisper: "when i write........"
When I write I try to imagine you reading this,
I fight with my imagination in the height of inspiration, I need you to feel this.
I want you to see my deepness and be blind to my weaknesses,
I write for you to keep this in your mind, I take a paper and fill it out with rhymes,
When I've finished the page there's still signs hidden deep between the lines,
My paper is my saviour on the front lines, being beaten by a soldier with ink for a spine.
A general with an idea on his shoulders and he's so desperate to hold it,
He knows that if he loses it he'll confuse the whole style of it,
So he never lets go of it, he moves word for word with the grace of a tsunami...
Beautiful yet deep, with a face that could destroy an army, with a taste for harmony...
He hardly stops for breath as he battles on the warfield of steel mind warfare,
He feels afraid of no-mans land but he knows that he must walk there,
He uses his black blood to talk where words have never been understood,
He uses all his energy in the curse of the fight for good,
He treats your satisfaction as his mission and your reaction as a position of fact...
He relaxes in your ears and attacks your eyes, he relaspes in his career as a captain of the mind...
He retires happily all the time you read these acts from me,
He expresses chapters gleefully that you constantly hear from me,
Yet he still feeds from me and needs me for sight... He only appears when I get the will to write.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by Issue
