Tortuous

I don't want/

to empty shells,/

introduce/

you to hell,/

or a heavenly/

chorus./

I'm just a/

ordinary/

tortoise,/

with lightning quick/

brainstorms,/

that torture/

your auditory/

orifice./

I email you/

details of what/

my cones and rods/

retrieve./

Forward it,/

so you can store it;/

I also give/

sneak peeks/

to what God sees./

From His perspective,/

I should wish/

Godspeed to my/

enemies,/

instead of a/

slow death./

It's hard to/

imagine me/

quote less./

Puzzled jigs/

have no answers;/

they only have/

hopelessness./

Their quotients/

only cause division./

Their remedy/

isn't focused/

on most folks./

If quotes were coke,/

I'd be a coke head./

Moral of the/

story is.../

These lines/

are dope, though./

Sniff the info,/

as your heart beats/

to a fast tempo/

of my mental's/

instrumentals--/

playing in the/

key of life./

I unlock the/

doors of your mind/

when I write./

These rappers/

hold no power/

like some Amish/

and Mennonites./

Looking for a/

horse on my carriage,/

and a key/

for my whip./

My brain/

communicates/

what's in my/

spirit's script./

I jot these/

excerpts from my/

autobiography./

Gas, I spit/

while holding pens/

with flaming tips./

Spit, I'm raining this/

on heads./

Grab an/

umbrella,/

young fella./

You've been in/

the desert too long--/

on edge;/

tense and irritable/

over the/

rap tunes you're/

listening to./

I rap moons/

around rap dudes/

without/

glistening, too./

No sweat./

Watch the literary/

vet./

Rhymes taste great./

Their flavor (rhymes)/

isn't bitter/

as berries, yet./

I litter/

every set/

with heavenly/

bandannas/

and plot lines/

to increase your/

stamina./

As an animal,/

with pitbull- like/

mandibles,/

lyrics sink deep/

like teeth./

There's no need/

to screech./

Pump your brakes./

Reckless words/

I don't seek./

Crash into my/

thought patterns;/

get thrown head first/

into my speech./

Peep my/

under armor/

as I reach/

for Saturn./

Vulnerabilities/

leak into/

notebook sheets,/

and bleed/

through my/

physical/

imagery./

But, ignore it./

Stories are/

euphoric/

and historic../

The stanza's/

panorama/

is first person./

Be the third person/

multiplied/

to observe/

written legends--/

urban./

I inscribe/

inside your mind;/

hide behind/

these lines/

I design./

I spew jewels/

for fools./

I spit bits/

of carats/

in rhyme form./

I chew food/

for thought,/

just to/

regurgitate/

in your mind's forum./

Oh My!/

How's the time gone./

I watch the clock/

like the time/

on my arm./

I see the dots/

and visualize/

the lines being drawn/

to my/

destination./

Heavenly/

ideas take shape/

in your/

imagination./

I play/

well with others,/

just give me space/

in my/

play station./

But anyway,/

this paper/

I stay blazin'/

with the pen./

An arsonist,/

I beg your/

pardon with/

flammable spit/

that keeps/

the city/

or forest lit./

Topically,/

I'm all over/

the place./

Like an ointment,/

spread this/

over your/

joints.  Its stiff./

Outgrew this gig,/

so it, I split./

Lit spliffs/

used to have my/

mind in a mist./

Now, it's just/

Satan's myths./

I give/

Christmas gifts/

when I use my lips/

and kiss your ears/

with adjectives./

Magic/

isn't averaged/

when I/

practice this/

wordplay among/

savages./

They act as/

cash registers/

and tell me my/

value./

Well, I'm worth/

about as much/

as a crutch/

to a leg/

injury./

To a/

solar panel,/

I'm about as/

important/

as the sun's/

energy;/

about as vital/

as the/

efficiency/

of my progress/

to the enemy./

As we approach/

Halloween,/

I won't scream./

You fake monsters/

are nothing/

but howling/

wind to me./

If it's a/

distraction,/

then it's nothing/

more than a/

sin to me./

The content/

in my poems/

is its own/

entity./

What I compose/

is like a/

long, winding road/

to my senses/

symphony./

Mozart,/

when I make/

descriptive/

written words/

look like art/

to your inner/

vision./

I drop ish/

over your head/

like pigeon's./

I keep heat/

like kitchens,/

or any/

Charles Bronson-type/

that's death

wishin'./

Splatter your brains/

at point blank range,

with ink stains/

I'm drippin'./

You know/

it's murder/

he wrote,/

when the ink's red./

I'm saying/

"deuces"/

and "toodles"/

to you fools./

This won't be the/

last time I've/

graced the stage/

of your pupils./

Jesus, take away/

my headache/

like I just/

popped 2 pills./

I prescribe/

sick gals and guys/

a piece of my mind./

I'm full of wise/

raps and wise cracks./

Street hustlers/

feeding y'all this/

cheese and mac,/

and tell of their/

adventures with/

fatback./

Your heart and/

arteries/

don't need/

all of that./

I've written/

grilled chicken,/

with a smidgen/

of lemon/

pepper./

I roast most/

like diced/

garlic/

potatoes,/

by/

what I say though./

From my/

larynx,/

comes/

asparagus./

Alkaline/

water,/

I spray though,/

washes away/

dirt like soap./

Smirk at the flow./

It currently/

may not/

bring in the dough./

My currency/

will drift in/

from what I wrote./

Just as alarm clocks/

my memoirs/

has the world awoke./

Follow the/

labyrinth/

of the pen's/

arrogance./

It leads you/

to my world,/

and what I'm/

imaginin'./