My only child was a seedling I planted on your pages.
It's outrageous...
when you consider the freshness of our ages,
remember to relay this, in the crossfire of your womb
was a pencil sketch of me by which I could remember you...
It was December, true, but the cold melted away
through the receiver of the phone,
and you were on your own that day
embracing all my chills with your blankets and your tears
that I froze there on your cheeks
before they streamed into your ears
like a million melodies I sang out, but never wrote
I sang out but never spoke, I sang out but without hope
I sang out!
...and the words never came,
because the pills you took were in the margins of your shame
like all the scribbled wishes we'd had in early days
before the crib decisions and the writing on the page
before the frightning gaze of advice that wasn't sage
and the flashing lightning haze of my beige against your beige...
Then colours gushed out to the light as colours often do,
and now your lover's outlet doesn't lead him to the truth.
I know now why it's uncouth
to think these things are built to last
'cause our messy scribbled page is torn and laying in the trash...
...and I didn't even get a chance to read over it.
http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/showthread.php?t=319557
http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/showthread.php?t=319550
Thanks.