My mind is in deep thought.
My mind keep whispering to my heart that I am a crack poet.
I smoke that spoken word like two blunts of weed.
I’m so high off words they are taking control of the ink that leaks out of my pen.
My ink is leaking words that I speak silently.
They were just hiding in a little bubble screaming pop me open.
My words are suffocating.
Trying to breath out on others who needs them the most.
They can’t handle the suffering any more.
I am a crack poet, my smoke comes out black.
my words comes off strong, they want to treat the people who did me wrong.
My closet is full of jumbled up sentences and phrases with quotation marks.
Quotes by myself making my head spinning like a Ferris wheel.
I am a crack poet, with poems that smell like purple kush.
Puff, puff, puff pass the pen to the next poet.
Now we got a cipher going on.
My mind is in deep thought.
I am a crack poet, I am high off words that might not make since to slow people.
They can’t comprehend the words that are coming out of my mouth.
It is like my words comes out as a different language.
I only speak English and these people look to me as if I’m speaking Japanese.
When my paper gets wet it is like having a fat wet blunt.
I might as well smoke my pen 30 times a day.
My eyes be drowsy when I look at paper.
I be having the munchies when I take a writing session.
A writing session feels like a studio session.
Having music in my ears.
Bobbing my head to the beat.
I’m just in the zone.
Feeling me.!
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