- Mar 26, 2003
- 10,777
- 4,247
my diary of diction doubles when displayed
and becomes further frayed when fools frolic in the shade...
just making the grade i use my eraser tip as a maid
cause she cleans up the dirt at work in my mind
when the blade finds my back to insert...
my pen pens the happiness to the hurt
and the promise to the pain
on some days i can even capture a single droplet or water
after a cleansing and washing rain...
sometimes i play with my pen...but she knows it's not a game
for shame for even thinking that this could be a game...
when i don't touch her just write she tells me i'm too simple and plain
all the while the paper thas stained overpowers the devil's disdain
and helps to keep me grounded and sane...
especially in a country that worships old sam hain moving in the fast lane...
as i turn away...the pen pulsates...this is not a game
and the mic says the same...
i hold both tightly in hopes of them screaming out my name
as i swim through the accumulated cascading currents that crash
and are never tame...
throwing this pen like a dart with the goal being
to strike with precision accuracy and accurate aim...
at night she whispers in my ear..."u can never be lame"
consciously i believe her but subconsciously i battle lack of confidence
as a bane like an addict battles cain...
nightmares of the night are purposely given hype when i write
like dana dane...
i don't know why she keeps coming around
i guess she likes my type cause i don't bite and run poetic trains
i'm content with just me and her...i don't require flow-etic fame...
through all of this she has showed me that this relationship is 4 real
and no matter what...will never be a game....
and becomes further frayed when fools frolic in the shade...
just making the grade i use my eraser tip as a maid
cause she cleans up the dirt at work in my mind
when the blade finds my back to insert...
my pen pens the happiness to the hurt
and the promise to the pain
on some days i can even capture a single droplet or water
after a cleansing and washing rain...
sometimes i play with my pen...but she knows it's not a game
for shame for even thinking that this could be a game...
when i don't touch her just write she tells me i'm too simple and plain
all the while the paper thas stained overpowers the devil's disdain
and helps to keep me grounded and sane...
especially in a country that worships old sam hain moving in the fast lane...
as i turn away...the pen pulsates...this is not a game
and the mic says the same...
i hold both tightly in hopes of them screaming out my name
as i swim through the accumulated cascading currents that crash
and are never tame...
throwing this pen like a dart with the goal being
to strike with precision accuracy and accurate aim...
at night she whispers in my ear..."u can never be lame"
consciously i believe her but subconsciously i battle lack of confidence
as a bane like an addict battles cain...
nightmares of the night are purposely given hype when i write
like dana dane...
i don't know why she keeps coming around
i guess she likes my type cause i don't bite and run poetic trains
i'm content with just me and her...i don't require flow-etic fame...
through all of this she has showed me that this relationship is 4 real
and no matter what...will never be a game....