deepundergroundpoetry.com
Internal battle
Mind is a jumble, deep seeded thorough thoughtlessness. The scars left upon my emotions or lack thereof.
Internal battles fought with precedence, good and evil, both are equal these thoughts, where I come from.
Pros and cons, of consequences rendered upon the literary mind, the internal battle is what I find.
The thing most sought after, through the many years of hurt. The embrace of a lover. Embrace lost in time.
Evidence of fidelity and yearning of learning and time after time and line after line of an itching and burning... from a soul constantly returning, to a body maturing.
The poetic flow that courses my veins,
that nobody knows and I try to explain,
in my poems and writings my prose slams exciting,
on the unknowing mind,
who, as I speak gets lost in time. And the grime of the winding,
and perfection of timing, as my words carve your brain,
from my words you lay slain.
Shifty and gifted, my mind deeply twisted,
And infected perception, perfected inception, the depth of my flow...nobody knows, a rhyme within a rhyme, within a rhyme is how deep I will go.
My hands render, as my mind composes.
As my body reacts to my souls emotions
And my internal and external, meet with commotion... the man child exposed, punched dead square in the nose.
And as the tears drop and my fears stop, within and without he thinks nobody knows,
No one sees his pain, though it thoroughly shows.
Like worn on his sleeve, in public he bleeds,
As he pours his heart out, on paper so stout, to bear his heavy thoughts and heavy mind, as he gets lost in time. And runs out of lines.
Wasted youth...
of...
mine...
and slow....
to...
a...
stop...
He...
Grinds...
Internal battles fought with precedence, good and evil, both are equal these thoughts, where I come from.
Pros and cons, of consequences rendered upon the literary mind, the internal battle is what I find.
The thing most sought after, through the many years of hurt. The embrace of a lover. Embrace lost in time.
Evidence of fidelity and yearning of learning and time after time and line after line of an itching and burning... from a soul constantly returning, to a body maturing.
The poetic flow that courses my veins,
that nobody knows and I try to explain,
in my poems and writings my prose slams exciting,
on the unknowing mind,
who, as I speak gets lost in time. And the grime of the winding,
and perfection of timing, as my words carve your brain,
from my words you lay slain.
Shifty and gifted, my mind deeply twisted,
And infected perception, perfected inception, the depth of my flow...nobody knows, a rhyme within a rhyme, within a rhyme is how deep I will go.
My hands render, as my mind composes.
As my body reacts to my souls emotions
And my internal and external, meet with commotion... the man child exposed, punched dead square in the nose.
And as the tears drop and my fears stop, within and without he thinks nobody knows,
No one sees his pain, though it thoroughly shows.
Like worn on his sleeve, in public he bleeds,
As he pours his heart out, on paper so stout, to bear his heavy thoughts and heavy mind, as he gets lost in time. And runs out of lines.
Wasted youth...
of...
mine...
and slow....
to...
a...
stop...
He...
Grinds...
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