haha i write whatever the fuck i feel man. I have poems that arnt angry or sad, poems i have written out of pure love. But most of the time i dont feel that so dont tell me what my poetry should and shouldent be.
so what white suburban ghetto are you from inker, with speek like that. Your the fucking idiot, have you ever really lost anyone imortant too you?
im guessin he hasnt, just like a bunch of kids on here, they dont know what real problems are. im not sayin this goes for everyone, but alot of kids on here never had to face problems they cant fix in their life, and then they talk like they do and it pisses me off. fuckin 2 parent, rich suburban bitches.
. And the sun's just that elusive beacon that we all strive to find but the wings melt if we get too close so don't fly too high. beads of wax drip down my cheek and leak to mend the cracks in the floor under my feet. golden beams in maroon space clutter up the sanguine scene for one last time before the darkness engulfs the night. flying too close to your sun i feel myself melt and see my reflection in the pool i form. my bones slack as i feel my mind slipping through my eyes and i think of times when i still had a spine. my discs have disalligned like beads on broken twine. . tonight i'm flipping every switch and turning my power off so i dont see anyone besides the posters on my wall through the dark. i know i wont follow through so don't hold me to my word. i'll end up with my friends and never want to sleep again turn off the sound. the effort's wat counts i want to hang suspended above the ocean and dodge from the planes that cut through the air and rest on the clouds without a care. and the passengers flying by wont see me bacause all my lights and all my flashes are off tonight turn off the sound. the effort's what counts. today i saw a cloud that looked like your ghost. i looked at my feet and kicked a stone watched it fall off the bridge only to crash through the surface the water that held your image for my eye shows nothing now but a broken a mirror of our life. . and this boy swallowed his pride with some pills and a large desert plant. he told me i looked like a 500 foot canyon or the man in the mountain. a neon glow surrounded my face of a spectrum not explored as he passed out to the floor. with all his people gone he was left alone, with the television to mutter thoughts in his ears and as he closed his eyes and took life for what it was last year, he watched the ceiling dissapear and bobble off to the sky. ^written about a friend who tripped on San Pedro cactus (similar to peyote) . last night we saw a shooting star rip a seam in space through your favorite constellation seven stars in a cluster opened and spilled a million thoughts from the sky, and whispered what i wanted to hear. watch me burn in the atmosphere. . uncertain, i hide in a reef and hope that faithful hook will catch my cheek and rescue my last string of sanity. thats what i need. oh, i'm in need. so close to the boat but i can't bring myself to be reeled up from the swarm and float to your arms. because i like where i lay with the school and the rays. and these questions fogging my brain, only seems natural these days. . he's taken the bait as the spider waits. the teeth sink into his brain as his head falls heavy like lead to leaf laden dirt. a ghost with eight legs. a timeglass burned bright and red even when i close my eyes the image holds still and sticks to the lids, behind which i reside. nowhere to hide. . haha i dont really expect any response.. i write a lot more music than lyrics.. very sweet thread
My safe place... In the left corner of my room, right behind my dirty cloths, is a closet... This is my safe place. It seems like a better home than the real, because I'm alone, and I feel good. As you duck your head and step in, you'll see drips of black indian ink splattered along the wall and on a small desk at the back. The Desk... The factory of my work... Here is where I plan, and manufacture my weapons. A bottle of ink, a few empty containers, a few nossels, books apon books filled with my soul and emotion, an exacto knife, and a single pencil. Not much, but enough to make a weapon that will not only defy law, but create a piece of art as well. My mom knows what I do, but she has more important things to yell at me about... An empty box rests in the corner of my closet, I hope to one day have enough cash to fill it with enough spray paint cans to last a life time, but "cash" and I don't seem to mix to well. When I say we don't mix, I mean, I never have it. I have two magazines, filled with other artists work, this is part of my inspiration. The rest of my inspiration comes from my life. The transport... A backpack, cheap, but well made... This is what is used to move my arsenal from city block, to city block. In it lies a few stencils, two cans of paint, and a single sticker I made while I wasn't in school ( which I never am). This is my exitment, my emotion, my thrill, and my doom... Getting cought seems so far away, but every time I go out, I feel as though this could be my last chance to show the world, what I feel. Conclussion... The next morning... I go three blocks out of my way to walk past the scene of my attack... As the colors of my work come into sight, a my face comes alife with thrill and joy... A joy no one else can replace. As I walk past my work, I feel the gaze of everyone on the street aiming at me... I know it's just my imagination, but I can't convince myself that I'll be fine. This is something I came up with right on the spot, I'm still working on a longer "story", that'll be out in a day or so. ps: Sorry for making a thread, I didn't see this thread. Thanks to the guy who started it.
thats necro manso im representing the 818 and the 213 i lived in 818 spent most of my time in the 213 Van Nuys and L.A now live in gay palmdale but kick it in L.A as for lost someone important but ive been pretty close to death various giant rumbles ive been involved in to
Ya, alright... Here's the newest shit I've written. It's for an introduction track. It's common to hear me swear, but I'll try not to curse in rhyme. I'm in it to say, that minimum wage just isn't worth my time. Whoever's workin' the lighting should turn off the limelight. I keep getting fake folks caught in my eyesight. 50cent's just a crackhead, who's been shot nine times. I walk the fine line, between brilliant and cracked out. In my own simple world I riddle words, and belittle girls that I asked out. Some people ask me"Jeffhole, why don't you have a fat sound?" Because your taste in music sucks you wasted stupid f---, go pass out. You're listenin to the class clown, but I'm in a class on my own. I'm a master of flows. My mind is faster than most, but still, I'm accident prone. Jeffhole's sick of wigger rappers, tossin' out words, cursin. To make myself feel good, I talk in the third person. I've lied to curious virgins, only to find a wilted weed. When faced with her deception, all she can do is still deceive. It's come to my attention, it's her intention to kill & feed. Not to mention, every so often she will bleed. It's as filthy as the story I tell. I'm horny as hell. I'm not premiscuous though. I'm not into the blow, like an inuit into the snow. I'm into continuous flows. Any place that I'm at is where the illinest go.
Ok, im making it fucking clear right now that fucking emo is str8 fucking wack and you all are a bunch of fucking pussies. Quit crying about your life sucking and quit cutting yourself u fucking crying lil bitches. FUCK EMO SCREAMO AND ALL THAT OTHER FAGGIT SHIT.
Down South-East,where vandalism prompts poverty and is amenable for the corrosion and dereliction of societies gravestone, Signeous James haunts the streets.He lived a life of mediocrity,indulging his time in the surfeited act of teenage boys.Other boys weighed there baggage with there hand whenether in the prescence of a girl, whereas Sig was forlorn like a heroin dose.Completely alone, resenting the world around him.........the world was conceited.Though this cynical perspective is blase,it was instilled on his mind by the callous father figure. An angel changed this all.Rainbow coloured cloth trailing behind her,the deceased nonchantlent as they walked through the crayon colored corridor into a portal to arcadia. She visited Sig why he lay on the astro turf sheet which inhabited the quotidian blur of his private space.He was naked,she entered with an effulgent aura,reminiscent of his Mum. He smiled a knowing smile full of pervading serenity, similar to the outstretched mouth of The Greyhound In The Sky. Though, the former had grievous undertones, for this was a feigning beam. His Guardian Angel had perished, leaving him without counsel. This would lead to abasement and drug abuse. The drug in question being Bluetonium Oxide, A.K.A Godly Signi, Jewel and Angelsauce (a moniker that's apt with the occasion). Onomatopoeic expressions began to interpret real life as the sound of Gun shots deadened the atmosphere. Signeseous James has witnessed his own departure. The Spirit of Sig raptures through the Petrol Blue ceiling leaving the gunman in an empty room, with the ceiling hung low, a dimming light, a distorted TV screen and the inanimate corpse of his victim. He elapsed into such turmoil after the heavens created her haven.....for she was to return to the promised land.He became a figure of burdernous tribulation who cried woeful tears, and she was to adorn a different persona and cut the longtivity of his circumvented soul.This was achieved with one pull of a trigger... An angel who had such refined features and pulchritude could'nt indulge in such a egoistic act,surely? Many have been conceived my readers...... For the nostalgic memories of when she first appeared in the stripped room,catching him in a divested state,after admittance threw the boards without forewarning had no place in her heart.She was the baleful Coed who escaped up his nose , such nocent malacia which ruined his nasal escapade's. Powder Blue had that efficacy.