A cubist poet
Pain flows from my pen when I skillfully graze the paper,
It runs in my veins, rains dreadfully for me to craze like Satan,
Writing in the shadow of poetry’s skyscraper,
In slavery’s chains I phrase from my spiritual craters
My art…a reflection of my soul, importing the feelings in my heart,
In a quest for perfection I crawl, distorting reality till I rip’er apart,
Rearrange it like a sage then exporting it in a complete new form,
To encaged minds and blind eyes re-forming into street cuneiform,
Just because cold may be warm………. an unity may be torn…
Most don’t understand art unless it’s flat like a platform…
But I’m still elite brainstorming,deep transforming into hidden art,
My poetry it’s like arabic geometry, a riddle from the start,
And I twiddle with words that stop your world from spinning,
You need to cut your umbilical cord and start breathing
To understand my true lyrical meaning,
Because I’m empirically concealing the essence of my lines,
Subliminally displaying excellence,annealing my every rhymes,
Shining only to trained eyes and minds,not constrained to simplicity,
Shining in the eyes of those whom are ingrained in authenticity…
This is my black period and I insist you know it,
I’m something like Picasso,only that I’m a cubist poet...
I know this was kinda short,but i wanted to post something...
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