Thank God I can wryte. I take sod that is white with blue lines and bite my true mind ‘til it’s ripe, then glue mine to words that are tight and do rhyme and pray that my life’s fight will in due time not inspire a flag at half mast. Though my life is half past, one day I’ll die, and that dye is half cast. Stand in my path and you do the math and see that God will have the last laugh. And at times I feel His wrath’s blast, so I empty my craft’s flask until I’m not hazy and I don’t feel wrong. Or until I no longer seem crazy like an old Seal song. I try to phrase me in ways that displays me. And though they don’t pay me like Jay-Z, it’s how I pray and ensures I stays me. I don’t praise me cus I see all my weaknesses and the reason my pen leaks this is no matter how bleak this gets, I will speak, otherwise my cheeks get wet. And these pages, the amount of times I frequent it makes me better at it. I’m a true writing fiend, a letter addict constantly fighting demons. But is it really fighting? Seems I’m constantly losing, like it’s just me choosing to exercise because my demons, God’s refusing to exorcise, so I text or die. It’s hard to text your sighs when they’re Texas size. You try to context your lives on text this size! But I will text this guy until I’m stricken with arthritis. I’ll die a pen martyr, sickened with author-it is. But until that day, what you can offer writers is to get off o’ wryters cus our only recourse is to go off or wryte us. My life, I swallow my thoughts as my pen will cough it right up and fight right up ‘til my coffin ride up. And I hope my coffin wryte up will capture me in stony silence, with words that break my lonely violence, that cry just like you loaned me violins. Vile sins hold me; crack my base, like vial sins sold attack my race. This is why I pray that God stack thy grace high and pat my face dry cus this black guy laced by lakes of tears weep themselves; I keep them shelved in deep lead wells and deep pen cells. I breathe through deep pencils that I need to feed to sleep in Hell. I’ve sown this pain to reap my self. I’ve flown this plane to reach myself, a grown man stained, impeached, my tale I’ve groaned when prayin’, I’ve preached, I’ve felt the scars of wars a warrior like Achilles feels; can’t seem to cure all my Achilles heels. Lord, why can’t I kill these? Heal me from me and my vices that I keep rerunning like Miami Vice is. Seems life is me running from my family vices born of my family crisis. And when it seems no one’s listening, my family Christ is! He cares for my cares cus He, likes handling priceless gifts. He interprets my thoughts when my hands wryte just glyphs, gives righteous gifts when I live in His righteous grips. When sin squeezes me hard, what I wryte just rips me and strips my life. It may save me from my kryptonite or may pave me to my crypt tonight. But like kd, my constant craving is for a script to wryte, so I’m often left alone with this gift God gave me and a pen dipped in light. I slave at this friendship I like. I spend trips in flight constantly fighting with ink, thin inking my fight. Never dropping my pen, but thinking I might. Bald, thin king, I wryte insight sought, to incite thought while caught here, in life fraught with those who fought wit’ words , the tools I taught with, fuel I jot with to show these fools, I jot wit that thinned the lot of a mile ‘o trees. Not sorry that I’m a wryter amidst a pile ‘o Gs, but it took a while for me, to take my trials and see them through this style, while I smile and leave them on the page, so penitent that I penned a tent for them, penned the tint of lead, fed by the heart it read, so each line said seeks out your ears as a bed. So please, mind where you tread, cuz each rhyme shows you my mind, where you tread and the constant travels of my mind wears through tread. It reminds where you read while I’m busy sewing new words, cuz mine tears through thread. And I find, with each line, that through writing I’m a Superman who stares through lead.