I hold this paper
it seems heavier than ever
with words piling on each other
endlessly forever
there is no telling when it will ever end
because it will never end.
Because letters will become words
and words become sentence
and sentences become paragraphs
It starts from inches to miles
it gets wild like a child.
When pencils become mechanical penis
and when wood becomes paper and papers meet penis
and papers eat penis
when writing just drains every ink in them.
Nothing is saved
when ink is drawn right through them.
How can they go on without anything else for me to say
all they depend on is my words that rends
and kill every one of them
I wanna write and see whats written not to memorize to be judged to win the prize
I want to stand with my pen and paper by my side and raise with me.
Let thoughts pile ontop of me and get back up.
with my pen gripped to my palms like glue and continue to do what it does
letting pen tubes be my veins
and when I write I can feel the pain
as my inked blood slowly drains onto the paper
soon I will be begging for a savior
to take this instruments away
I will refuse and never quit
I will not let these cold blooded weapons seize the day
with out a player to play this game
nothing will ever be the same
without a hand
with fingers to hold the pens trigger
and aim at a line on a paper
fire and set truth higher than ever.
Because these instruments are what is prime to me,
and pride you can barely see
to know what it all means to be me with my instruments of destruction
like crayons as my friend said
he will put them into chaos
but I'll put these mechanical pens and blank papers to cause a new Renaissance men and march to a new century and change everything that meant be.
and break those crayons and set them on fire
and let those melted pieces be my titled piece
with all of them bolded
with times new roman
all capitalized with font size 139
now tell me whose more devastating
whose brave enough to pase with me
and walk at the same time and make the same rhythmic rhymes....
try and keep up, because you aint quicker than I.
Come stand next to me and tell me
whose more righteous?
who can step on me and be like me, because we don't have the same pen and paper
all you have is a stapler with bobby pins and a filled up trash bin with all your thoughts crumpled in
we can't be the same
Because I can write with my pen
and its my might to know whats written on every line
I can sight internal rhymes in poems you write.
I can set your life in reverse and tell you in free verse
that you and your life aint worse than mine
in my experience with the devils purse
trapped inside
surrounded by a wall of bricks ready to burst
like boiling pits
never to see light which slowly dims
on this day when I walked up and saw my weapons on display.
I approach them without anything to say
I held them and ponder in distant space
and quickly rise from the dead to give what I received from hell
These instruments
I hold my paper and pen and write until I drop dead again.
I Rest in peace and let my soul write for me
This pen
and this paper.
I'll treasure them forever.
I'll Hold them in leather casing with golden feathers
keep them warm whenever I need to share my thoughts and dreams. I'll bust them out and set my pen in position with my paper and cause a collision that will make my vision burn and blur.
Fall on the floor and close my eyes and hold my instruments tight
until my hands bleed from paper cuts and stab wounds from my penis
this is how it feels to be free.
Free to be who I wanted to be
to be me and see my dreams that I thought to never dream
these are my instruments and without me, my instruments are useless ,without my instruments I am nothing.
By: Chris M.
reason: Alive 'n Breathing
