Prolific_1011
03-26-09, 05:05 PM
they say life has a reason for poets, so i'm alive and eager to show it
beneath the commotion, the mind is deeper than oceans
my pen hails from the same region as moses
believe that i'm focused... when i decide to compose
i breathe poems as if i balance a pen on my nose
an angel sharpens the pencil lead in my soul
i rip a canvas and blend it with gold
unlike an edible rose, a twisted planet is intended to grow
it's incredible, a poet's dream swims across the flesh in my bone
my destiny goes, as far as poems over my enemies dome
in very delicate flows, i'm reminding my foes...
why i'm rhymin' opposed... to spitting a graphic novel
i'm dreamin' of lightning within a plastic bottle
the mind of an aristotle could only flourish within
uncertain of friends, a poet only worships the pen
the one tool that captures a dark past and current events
after i flip the page, the saga begins
if heaven was the hoop, than only angels could capture the rim
if unable to master the pen, than manana is dim
that means tomorrow is dark...
but even faith told noah to follow the ark
watching eternal sunshine of the spotless mind...
a poetical prophet dies, consumed by drugs and toxic wine
i use my bars, telegraphing from the surface of shooting stars
as i view the gods, i stare back at earth and human scars
jealousy is part of the wrong traits...
that we inherit from money and dark space
i dreamt of a soldier unable to walk straight
a gun been through his boots, his pain played as a continuous loop
at night with empty hands, he continues to shoot
stuck in his ways like the one gum in his tooth
i follow the path of indigenous tales
only poets could describe the pain of an innocent male...
accused of a heinous crime as poets abuse a page's mind
they say a man's pen might change with time
'til then, i'm the poet, the father of the greatest rhyme
my eyes observe, the moment in which a crime occurs
i'ma cherish my time on earth and let the horizon burn
if i cry a verse, then i'ma tell you why it hurts
been a poet, before jay-z was rhyming with Hawaiian shirts
lyrical dinosaurs, poets carry the heart of a lions roar
i am more... than just a word spitter
call me the earth splitter, a diamond among a blurred picture
listening to wiretaps, i fire back... by any possible means
filtering any possible screams from within my audible dreams
unaware... like the moon before the sun is scared
similar to ghosts who knock over the tupperware
like i just drank off the fountain of youth...
i begin to spit as loud as the truth
poets dissect the world and how it began
surrounded we stand, by aliens as smart as a crowded japan
time goes, but destiny won't allow it to crash
as a prostitute sleeps, a pimp has already counted his cash
a mountain of ash... rains as loud as a broken sound system
my pen's motion reflects a profound rhythm
if poetry's a crime, than call poets the proud victim
doubters ask, "does the crown fit him?
does the poet speak to arouse wisdom?"
son, my verses encourage the hardest erections
lost in dimensions, we follow the lone path and awkward directions
i look at puddles and see a prophet's reflection
a struggling soul unable to defeat an obvious depression
through out the darkest recession...
some sleep and others remain awake
as the trees retain the rain, some preach and others remain afraid
walking by, we confront the shadows of a dying avenue
i battle fools who question a reason for my attitude
not me, but the hands of time strangles you... to oblivion
from a distance, i hold no vision as sacred as the old dominion
a poet shines as much as a canvas with a painted moon
red ink could symbolize the power of a tainted wound
a broken cloud is a way of describing an orphan child
and a diamond could mean a virgin within a gorgeous gown
that's the dialect... words we choose in our rhymin' sets
just imagine a culture of blinded men...
who rather grab a knife than pen
in a world of mice and men, i rather grab the mic instead
with the black, white, and then the spanish flow...
i channel the spirit of edgar allen poe
without the cocaine that would bless and wrap his nose
with the end of status quo's, he told men the path is closed
like the blackest holes, his mind was darker then a casket's rose
no surprise, words take on an old disguise...
transmitted through sounds of the poltergeist
a rotter verse is suppose to die...
faster than shavings of beards on older guys
never fear an open mind, at least one that's clear as frozen time
poetry, i take plenty from it, like pure minerals in many buckets...
that's met with the growls of an empty stomach
if you can't paint a picture, then you ain't brushing correct
you have a better chance at russian roulette
touchin' his chest, an old war veteran suffers from stress
still livin' with anger towards the Vietnamese
"when i see them and squeeze, i do it for freedom and peace"
yeah right, open your eyes and expand your wings
fly and embrace the poet, his immaculate hands and dreams
beneath the commotion, the mind is deeper than oceans
my pen hails from the same region as moses
believe that i'm focused... when i decide to compose
i breathe poems as if i balance a pen on my nose
an angel sharpens the pencil lead in my soul
i rip a canvas and blend it with gold
unlike an edible rose, a twisted planet is intended to grow
it's incredible, a poet's dream swims across the flesh in my bone
my destiny goes, as far as poems over my enemies dome
in very delicate flows, i'm reminding my foes...
why i'm rhymin' opposed... to spitting a graphic novel
i'm dreamin' of lightning within a plastic bottle
the mind of an aristotle could only flourish within
uncertain of friends, a poet only worships the pen
the one tool that captures a dark past and current events
after i flip the page, the saga begins
if heaven was the hoop, than only angels could capture the rim
if unable to master the pen, than manana is dim
that means tomorrow is dark...
but even faith told noah to follow the ark
watching eternal sunshine of the spotless mind...
a poetical prophet dies, consumed by drugs and toxic wine
i use my bars, telegraphing from the surface of shooting stars
as i view the gods, i stare back at earth and human scars
jealousy is part of the wrong traits...
that we inherit from money and dark space
i dreamt of a soldier unable to walk straight
a gun been through his boots, his pain played as a continuous loop
at night with empty hands, he continues to shoot
stuck in his ways like the one gum in his tooth
i follow the path of indigenous tales
only poets could describe the pain of an innocent male...
accused of a heinous crime as poets abuse a page's mind
they say a man's pen might change with time
'til then, i'm the poet, the father of the greatest rhyme
my eyes observe, the moment in which a crime occurs
i'ma cherish my time on earth and let the horizon burn
if i cry a verse, then i'ma tell you why it hurts
been a poet, before jay-z was rhyming with Hawaiian shirts
lyrical dinosaurs, poets carry the heart of a lions roar
i am more... than just a word spitter
call me the earth splitter, a diamond among a blurred picture
listening to wiretaps, i fire back... by any possible means
filtering any possible screams from within my audible dreams
unaware... like the moon before the sun is scared
similar to ghosts who knock over the tupperware
like i just drank off the fountain of youth...
i begin to spit as loud as the truth
poets dissect the world and how it began
surrounded we stand, by aliens as smart as a crowded japan
time goes, but destiny won't allow it to crash
as a prostitute sleeps, a pimp has already counted his cash
a mountain of ash... rains as loud as a broken sound system
my pen's motion reflects a profound rhythm
if poetry's a crime, than call poets the proud victim
doubters ask, "does the crown fit him?
does the poet speak to arouse wisdom?"
son, my verses encourage the hardest erections
lost in dimensions, we follow the lone path and awkward directions
i look at puddles and see a prophet's reflection
a struggling soul unable to defeat an obvious depression
through out the darkest recession...
some sleep and others remain awake
as the trees retain the rain, some preach and others remain afraid
walking by, we confront the shadows of a dying avenue
i battle fools who question a reason for my attitude
not me, but the hands of time strangles you... to oblivion
from a distance, i hold no vision as sacred as the old dominion
a poet shines as much as a canvas with a painted moon
red ink could symbolize the power of a tainted wound
a broken cloud is a way of describing an orphan child
and a diamond could mean a virgin within a gorgeous gown
that's the dialect... words we choose in our rhymin' sets
just imagine a culture of blinded men...
who rather grab a knife than pen
in a world of mice and men, i rather grab the mic instead
with the black, white, and then the spanish flow...
i channel the spirit of edgar allen poe
without the cocaine that would bless and wrap his nose
with the end of status quo's, he told men the path is closed
like the blackest holes, his mind was darker then a casket's rose
no surprise, words take on an old disguise...
transmitted through sounds of the poltergeist
a rotter verse is suppose to die...
faster than shavings of beards on older guys
never fear an open mind, at least one that's clear as frozen time
poetry, i take plenty from it, like pure minerals in many buckets...
that's met with the growls of an empty stomach
if you can't paint a picture, then you ain't brushing correct
you have a better chance at russian roulette
touchin' his chest, an old war veteran suffers from stress
still livin' with anger towards the Vietnamese
"when i see them and squeeze, i do it for freedom and peace"
yeah right, open your eyes and expand your wings
fly and embrace the poet, his immaculate hands and dreams