No flatlines, you’ll only hear me breathe life
Too nice to spit wrong, live long, rip songs from my windpipes
Don’t hide behind skies, watch your spine but dot your eyes
I got roof vision at night, spit on mics turns to ice, truth turns to lights
You could turn to me and tell me all about the height
About the hurt, about the pain of your life and how I could pick you up and fix you outta bind
Arms open wide as the wind
Let me fix the cog that won’t spin for the record
Play my heart, loop my art, and hang me up for good measure
I rule when I put my pen up against the pressure
I think I found my electric, magnetic treasure
Head pain, bolts in the brain
Blue stone frozen sayings from green veins
Before you, I closed my eyes cause I was drained
When I was weak I weeped for days
But strength turned from meek to major
Find me by the water, I’m raising anchors, it’s in my nature
What I write a couple thousand leagues
Don’t let my magic freeze
I vow to oversee the underseas to keep my atoms at ease

//

Don’t got room in my pitchfork hand to hold another trident, can’t weaponize the pen, pine sapped the soul from my mileage, every step a lil more of my ditched efforts dying out the calloused heels, set my focus to recovery, turn down the sheets, swipe the same on the screen, never let my pasture be a paddock, avoid mastery and pageantry, never posture padlock the passive aggression inside an expo marker, watch it bleed but the ink blue, erased when I missed you, dropped the combo only hit a 3 piece, economics failed me or at least I ain’t pass the business class, send it back like biyombo, bis Mack, behind the arc it’s a triptych of generation visible on the marquis, born to a desert so the thirst always minimally six piece, pick package up drop package off, venerated post office guilt, anti-capital hurdles to see the letters leave the bill, a pile up on my post, veteran-to-the-substance exclusive sober psychedelic moments, each a modicum of thrill killed and sidewalked, sword held, sidelined myself to see my family hold the podium, to be alive and well in the 20s is a rarity, exodia, reductionists gon tell you it’s only five cards and leave emojis on the tombstone, seems narrow-minded that the marrow rotten in the new bones of old machines, I ain’t even close to forty yet but I stopped dreaming, maybe it comes back when I stop smoking weed, stop letting loose the holdings frivolously, eighth a day aint no way to give with no notion to receive, potion in the peace