My poetry is like a fine mist
   The verses caress like a tender kiss
But when I drop ink with a twist of my wrist
    I spit mad bars because I get ******

Here’s the gist of it
   I slip the quip in there
It’s whatever comes up to the surface whenever the spirit moves me
If there’s a lisp in it
   It’s my speech impediment
I breathe fire because aside from the ire writing also behooves me

My verses are a mix of history and mystery
    A puzzle of lost pieces with imagery
Whatever sounds clever I pull the lever and let the words flow
My thoughts tend to get stuck at the dam
    If there be floods I’ll be ******
I’m playful yet a little unstable but I’m careful not to let it show

And so if I had to sum up my poetry
   I’d say it’s a reflection of me
A twister of emotions filtered, tuned, groomed and rhymed
I’m not always at my best
    But I get it off my chest
So long as the words are ready, steady, primed and perfectly timed