W.J.T.G.: Blazing trails is such a lonely act. Tortured artist trying find Aloe Vera in a desert plan. dyin’ of thirst. Attempting to steadily react to my heart pounding me from being bezerk sounding. If silence ever befalls me,
may all the sounds in my mind shrapnel thru my skull capturing 1000 words ending in rhymes or a piece of my spirit splintering into a rose vine.

C.S.: Don’t call us poets. We’re a writers guild of know it. Alls who are honest and rawSo off-spoken that we can be off-putting. Sitting from your comfort zones friend. We need your eyes bugged, ears peeled hearts open. To this futuristic struggle rap. Made by the troubled brothers that. Sit and sip until the bars closin’. Tomorrow kings that struggle with their devotion. But we are not our heroes we are our own opponents.

I.B.: Clearly noted as we living in ya stereo/ Islam... walking up that incline, here we go. Fish line silhouetted cap-com patch line/ tap line filtered through cracks. Let me get this off my chest/. I’ll been stitching it years. standing on a thrown trying to elevate these kids.If its it one thing I know/ I’m inspired by my brothers arms. Forever indebted, same goes for the wave of tomorrow.

G7: I build up like a rechargeable battery. The posterity that survived the neo sonic calamity. And I’m tempted to support their architecture with Tetris. So I plant in kids extensive pyramids before I’m beheaded. Sure I will be. I know my neckblood will stain their axes. When pax his, they counter with delivering a pre-paint brush brandished canvas. TK is here to smash this. Artists, art like there’s no leash. And politics has poly ticks that you should wrench pick from your pen. I saw the future with my pupil and tossed it back to the youth. Like a goalie choosing to redistribute the futbol to opponents. Mixed blood oceans the oppressed and oppressor. But my hair texture texts my “fist” to “pick” to help those under pressure. So I broke the spaceship with fuel enough to airbrush stardom. No returning to a land where elves freeze orbit so clock hands harden. Your problem is my problem. Masses of child plugged in position with zeroes and ones ‘til we inject a two and foil their prison

L.M.: a phalanx is just a dot at a distance. most’ll miss it. perfect circle of patron saints of all things but business. is it living? does it listen? is it in fashion? maiden hell.
analog valium dispenser for less attractive dechanels. this could’ve been legal tender. shit. a pound of lung to fuck with. bloomed too many causes of death to pick just one: husband. no disrobed museum of new women i won’t do drugs with. too many absent everythings pull these ribs apart. punished. have i ever told you the story of the panhandler who told me to go back to africa? that shit reminds me of rap. hymn of dizzy wrath. witchcraft of misquoting. it’s black. skinned on fight weight on scales of vulture math. am i my dead weight’s keeper? left hand cast of leeches. tell him sit bitch and pretty scab work’ll break his fever. cannibalism is occam’s razor slack for king eat king when the downfall of alchemy is feeding.

M.E.: I once was lost in a former shell of myself then resurrected. With a special kinda love manifested I became invested in the outcomes of my existence. As the sovereignty of my success became persistent. My queen speaks I listen my daughter moves in rhythm. To make my new decisions this is my true religion. Collude to preview my winnings. My cup over runneth till my time a cometh.

S185: When shadows speak of spotlights, its mere babble to travels to the most gourmet of breadcrumbs and words are sped up to walk across rooms and open doors. Given a lost cause lurking at a youths winter inventing a choking hope for more, this is slave song english we developed into minds that define the Universe into words that work as elephants in the room. Lacking cowardice to break sweats at confused faces. Mistaken God for Gospel complimenting the landslide of man unto the raw nerve of nature as it jerks earthquakes to make lifespans go color bar, Indian “Stand By.” And be inner circle clever. The revolution will not have t-shirts sold at booths and stylist. That concept is a counterpoint. We’re smiling through gunpowder summers. And It’s likely that next year they’ll be a new Jesus on to tour for a season as a 9th Wonder. Angry? “Bitch I Might Be” I’m the part Merman descendant of a slave that brave the waters with her daughter because in her thirst she hallucinated her children would have to explain their humanity in a foreign tongue. So the guns I stick to are Sixtoo Trapdoors into the awkward space between self acceptance and oblivion. Molded with my angry hands out of the metal that took my Grandfathers eye… while building your railroads.

Def Cee: Fuck it!