Here’s the third auto-biopic,
snapshots of a King from a wild prince,
was on the fence for awhile
since the smiles went
in defense of my child
all the while spent . . .
"Adult Lessons" {adolescence}
a blessing, but that file’s dens.
I had a foul sense,
that everything in the world that I found since,
had a mild stench,
so my styles switched . . .
On and off
on the prowl for that wild wench,
so with my jowls clenched
I made a pack
to impact every mile spent
on this highway of life,
I would compile prints.
A triage
of collaged events,
but in a larger sense . . .
A more grander scale,
burying the boy within the man
til the man prevailed,
a careless carousel,
repeatedly
losing me with every passing fail,
not understanding that life
was never pass or fail,
but moving past the hell
with my compassion held
higher than my passions tell . . .
acoustic a capell-
a truth that I’m compelled,
to yell in silent spells.
My hidden holocaust
clearly written all across
the expanse of soul,
a scripted Molotov . . .
Slowly burning viciously,
with only karma kissing me,
f*cked by my choices in life
while birthing misery.
And that was on a brighter note . . .
my twenties held a light of hope,
in the form of a love that died before its scope.
But in its resurrection,
I found that she was my reflection.
Undeniably, the sum of my fears
from counting blessings.
snapshots of a King from a wild prince,
was on the fence for awhile
since the smiles went
in defense of my child
all the while spent . . .
"Adult Lessons" {adolescence}
a blessing, but that file’s dens.
I had a foul sense,
that everything in the world that I found since,
had a mild stench,
so my styles switched . . .
On and off
on the prowl for that wild wench,
so with my jowls clenched
I made a pack
to impact every mile spent
on this highway of life,
I would compile prints.
A triage
of collaged events,
but in a larger sense . . .
A more grander scale,
burying the boy within the man
til the man prevailed,
a careless carousel,
repeatedly
losing me with every passing fail,
not understanding that life
was never pass or fail,
but moving past the hell
with my compassion held
higher than my passions tell . . .
acoustic a capell-
a truth that I’m compelled,
to yell in silent spells.
My hidden holocaust
clearly written all across
the expanse of soul,
a scripted Molotov . . .
Slowly burning viciously,
with only karma kissing me,
f*cked by my choices in life
while birthing misery.
And that was on a brighter note . . .
my twenties held a light of hope,
in the form of a love that died before its scope.
But in its resurrection,
I found that she was my reflection.
Undeniably, the sum of my fears
from counting blessings.