Kicking the Habit

Hi. . . My name is Clear and I have an addiction for this thing called Spoken Word.
And it all started when I was introduced to sessions that sparked joints;
Where listeners got lost and hallucinated in the right dosage of words;
This came from the mouths of dope heads, which never mislead.
Who burn A4 pages from the dome, on every stage for commonsense sentences?
Shrooms would fill the room at a state of intellectual ecstasy;
And the dealer would be the organizer of such cause and effect.
Passing out on microphones from an immediate fix from stanzas;
Drooling finger snaps react with thundering applause, as a feedback answer.
With red eyed rhymes which were painted throughout every mind;
THC from the ABC’s would make music for every soul to dance;
Reciting ites brings the whole world and reality into marvelous trance.

so hi. . . my name is Clear

Yes, it is Clear to me that I am obsessed with spoken word;
For I do inject myself with pens for pencil lends are not that potent anymore;
The tracks that play on my arms have left goose bumps in my vain with a craving of a score.
Sniffing on metaphors and popping on similes is now a regular kick;
Because I’m a crack head for puns, and a junky for personification if I begin to tick.
To get my system into the rhythm of tongues that relapse unto growing brain cells;
AA meetings would rock at every corner spot; that made living more than well
After the asylum gathering, I would hear things like a beat box that would keep me from a detox
Relaxed nerves and minds would be the great sign after receiving the shell shock.
Deep conversations get ignited on the spot by a natural high;
While punched lines get on board on that train of thought that runs through the sky.

so hi. . . my name is Clear

I admit, clearly I am addicted to this thing called spoken word
I knew it was getting serious when I began to strap my arm with a dictionary;
And I would Pierce myself with African philosophy books just to get my mind free.
Most of the time I would wear a straight jacket, which we know best as a dashiki
And sisters would puff a super skunk hair do, as a statement for the whole world to see
The revolution is televised with a fist in the air, holding crushed greenery that we would share
Snorting theories and history to define life in dimensions that we all love to bare.
Inhaled it all down to my creativity life span, which burned like all kinds of acid;
Ink would pour out from the stage in all kinds of directions and it would write on plastic.
For every content that was written based on a concept has constant dope substance;
This thing man, gives the state of consciousness, the soul and back bone impeccable balance.
It’s a sad joy to see it make events spin, time flies fast by the minute and the high decays by the second

It’s clear that I am an art hippy and I’m addicted to this thing called spoken word.