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ogdiddynash Jul 2018
helping the kids with homework


no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy

taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself

you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later

the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability

doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much

ain’t exactly his strong suit

sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,

i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes

a home work
#homework
Dev Nov 2018
While yes, I have a résumé
It does no justice describing mé

So I'll leave this here for all to see
All I ask is please hire me

I'm great with sales
and communication
I can create tales
with no hesitation

Been fixing PCs since '99
Right after I broke all of mine

I don't do drugs
I don't cause fights
I won't give shrugs
to new insights

I can Photoshop best selling ads
and tell corny jokes just like most dads

I write HTML
and CSS
I can kinda spell
At least try my best

Started my first business in 5th grade
Profiting from the paper airplane trade

I'm a fast learner,
a problem solver,
a trust earner,
an idea causer,
a spreadsheet slayer,
a real team player

While I'm no photography guru
I've actually had a paid gig or two

Dove into video editing
way back when MySpace was a thing

Oh yeah. Plus I'm proficient with Microsoft Office.
This is a work in progress but I'd love critiques like formatting, poetic grammar, etc. I may consider submitting this on job applications.
Martin Narrod Sep 2014
I call it poison, but perhaps you won't. These cold pressed apples, pineapples, and spearmint only paste more modge podge over my face as I schlack it on...gritting my teeth I light yet another cigarette, now that's 2 packs of Marlboro Red Labels now onto American Spirits Light Blue. Cancer isn't coming fast enough. I wish I would at least be ******* out my innards by now, I haven't even vomited, maybe I'll take that toothbrush I bought for you to use when you would stay the weekend, that I haven't gotten around to whitening the sink with. Maybe I can do that Sunday. FUUUUCCK!!!! I am not praying I make till then. I don't know if I can even breathe another hour like this. I haven't drawn a sober breath in years- I'm on the wagon, but I was just transferred from a wheel into the **** bag for a horse. Being ****- at least it's something I am used to (a sigh of temporary relief washes over me. Or is it finally the Nicotine buzz I've been hoping for since I escaped to the forest with an airplane bottle of Southern Comfort[Brainstem: South to the **-femalien crease that's been comforting all these years, where are you now?] , and a pack of my Uncle's cigarettes to find out the first time how to make the pain she's gave me go away.

Men drink essentially because they can no longer illicit their needs.

You who I wasn't even attracted to at first, where together we barely called [Brainstem: this is where I construct a motive for using a chainsaw to pick my nose with] . You who I can now remember the way a mixture of your hair, body spray, sweet sweat, and vintage knits began leading my nose and my memory towards one of the greatest happinesses and darkest times I have EVER had.

[Brainstem: I just hate him. The kind of hate you have for a mosquito, a person who encourages you to speed up while they're walking without reflectors or night-lights in the middle of the road at night with their dog- that kind of hate. The hate that has me smoking my cigarettes to their orange and gold filters, that has me staying awake, unable to touch my own **** because it's already started staying at someone else's place and looks like two Californian Prunes and a shriveled overcooked mini-hotdog does. The kind of hate that has me burping up what smells like rotten eggs or bial.

....Out of nowhere without anything but the image of a virginate 21 year old casing around my aorta, lying in my bed in just a pair of her Fuschia & White Victoria Secret striped 100% cotton ******* that ever so slightly crease inward into the creases where her skinny young legs meet the ever-so-bite-worthy crease....After our first official date where we knew we weren't going to **** each other but rather she was focused on her breathing hoping I wouldn't be able to notice how excited she was [Crime: #4] then step away and find an imaginary monster that challenges every thought I have, conversations and incidents and challenges and givers and receivers and lines and dots, darts, knives, life, and *** and blood faintly stained onto the bottom of the that 1 1/2" piece of fabric which is the biggest obstacle between us.

While I write, recall, remember and dictate and draft up this piece, I realize that I am not the lawyer visiting the killer in prison OR even the killer cruising around in a slightly rusted robin's egg blue Volkswagen Anti-Climaxer, I am not even part of the story anymore, after you decided it was acceptable to be so graphically forward with me (I take another Xanax that's beginning to be two an hour that I avoid taking) Interspliced are scenes from Dexter, versions of serial killer life, visions of this fake superstar with his **** out flailing around spurting a little streaky one shot of *** onto your tongue and in your mouth, or maybe you were plastered with it.

I just know it's good I don't have a gun, I could go for a bullet sandwich 9 times over about now. I never touched, discussed, abused, misused, lead on, flirted with; I never did anything unattractive with the exception of being a heavy smoker and a low-earner right now, but I see women even younger than you make better choices than you. In fact right now I believe you will not even breathe on me. But it's no matter I have the reconstructed skeleton of his severed body parts I let soak in hydrofluoro until I could pick away what little gum-like pieces of pink sinew are still left. (Dexter: The Sarge and The Lieutenant walk  out of the precinct at the same noticing each other.

Do you believe that I really handed over the upper-hand to you? I've never had someone begging to **** my **** on a Thursday and getting a fake celebrity ****** from an awesome artist. And what really ***** the hammer and lifts my limp **** and ****-ticket up to your pretty little mouth, is knowing that eventually you will have to be alone again, and the shine of this excitement will wear off, and then I TOO CAN PLAY THE GAME.

1. Time to light the cigars.
2. I present the Nicaruagan landscapers' body, George Marshall, who is better known as 'The Skinner."
3. I accept that you're going to think being honest about your most promiscuous moments is attractive to talk about. I certainly thought that, up until you That is.
4. No more chocolate cake, again.
5. Throw out the soda.
6. Start taking Amphet Salts and running away from home and into everyone I would've liked to kick with my foot, bare, filthy, and furious into their cheekboned. Then smear the bottom of my oily and baby-***, **** and inviting foot into your Hood until you spray like the five hundred other times you tell me you didn't. But even all this. This cell phone, this furniture, the awful sound of the train all night, the illusion and total manic state that puts diplopic faces of imaginary people between me and the rest of the world.

I need to know, do you even want to here this? Are you confused? What led you to come over or invite yourself here?

Pills, blade, play, or having that kid. But putting up with his ******* to be in the background of thought as someone while I was at home with his four kids. And I just relax then because, while I thought organizing the tower room to serve our primary guest of action was necessary when I looked at it so lit up by the buildings across the way shining their light through its atrium making all of the room much more suited for making art, writing and dancing. This is a huge handful of good-naturedness in a friend that can't seem to get off the phone and I must have to hid the monkey. I have to go to Walmart and return the monkey. I will...... and this is the biggest luxury, the hotel maintenance will even cover up my own series of murders or Dexters.

You believe me right sweetheart. You're my closest friend, but she is worn together and I just like the rings I own to be worn by you so that you don't get the idea to slip up and not just give me more anneurisms for my ****** up already head, or cancel the party, but really play that game and seee them cased out, otherwise I could be...a? A Cosmetic Manufact- "I believe in Freedom." You said.
"hahahaha", I can see that got you where you are today, postulating my grief by throwing self-care out the window and just judging me based on what you don't relate to instead of what you do relate to.

PS I know you didn't have time to let anyone know I was coming already? Until I snuck a peak and figured out you had been casing me the whole time from beginning to end to break me. But I'm not broken. I'm just not eager to be touched by anyone else of the ** form other than you for a minute. I also have time believing that while you were scared of me giving you your first ***-to-mouth experience while I stand you up in a skirt in the back of the school bus. And I can recognize tears of someone around us, and so I stand up and I recognize that it's my friend Stephen who is really (...is really, an imagined hologram of myself I invent to learn about myself in dreams, and other horrific events that my mind shuts down for, and no you're not the only 5' foot and 5" inch blonde haired ex of mine that performs from the camera but not for the eye. It will all come out in the wash regardless. I better to get goin.....I could write on and on and on and on about all of these multi-secular, uninhibited, depressing suggestions from the same bill my sister has to pay her Electric and Water monthly on, but I need to not sleep to make the need more. And even though I say the photo of her touching a single toe with a dead boring hell bent nobody Phillistine that could care less about her Grandfather being sick or her getting an STI or STD or if she is taken care of. But I do. I will. I don't stop being the good natured caring and and passionate person I am just because someone I really thought was going to take me an honest man, just taught me to be more meticulous in making sure I dispose of the body properly... But maybe she isn't playing pretend, maybe she's just another Fake Prada caught up in the mix.
This isn't necessarily the end of this. I'm just gonna stop for tonight putting a pen to it.
Kagey Sage Aug 2014
I don’t want to perpetuate the produce – consume loop
but when I don’t, I feel like such a lazy moocher
Could I play guitar near after dark bars for $23 an hour?
Victor and I did that once, for $11.50 each
Untaxed, that’s better than my dour real job
So, if I really made my place at a street corner, I’d be a smart earner

But then I’d be a fixture, like the accordion man and the bums with PVC buckets
The bar goers would soon hate me for chumping them out of their cash
with three gritty “Heart of Gold” covers
Then soon the mediocre bums would jump me and Riot, my guitar
She’ll smash into the walk under a Irish flag in front of Murphy’s Law,
while drinkers whoop and punch the air
The bucket goes over my head
and the accordion bellows squeeze round my neck
urvashi May 2013
The rain falls softly on the sleeping city…. Cloaked in the blanket of a monsoon lull…. A few stray dogs scamper for shelter as the first storm of the season colours the dawn a deeper crimson…..
The thunder rumbles from the north east…a deep slow sonorous sound coming from the underbellies of the moisture laden atmosphere…..
The soft drizzle forms a hazy blanket of morning mist around the city…..already stirring with the first signs of life…. The resurrection of the everyday work-a-day world…….
The musical tinkling of a bell echoes around as a pushcart brimming with flowers rushes down the street, hurrying to the market…fresh, preened and ready…to be sold to the highest bidder…
The soft music of the approaching storm inspires a boatman, out on the holy river, to sing…… his voice echoes over the bass of the thunder……a plaintive pleasant humming……the nuances of the bhatiali fill up the empty cracks in the morning……
The rain deepens…………the drizzle expands into the monsoons first downpour… pitter-patter sings the rain, reverberating off a thousand tin roofs……the sky darkens……enveloping the dawn in its grey being…..
Somewhere, someone tunes a harmonium…..clears a throat…a hand draws a curtain aside…..
The peaceful reassurance of the daily azaan spreads out from the mosque…..calling the faithful to prayer…..
The flower vendor…now setting up shop, attaching an extra strip of plastic sheet to fend off the rain…. Stops a moment and bows his head as the nearby tolling of a bell and the sound of a conch shell being blown announces the beginning of a new day in god’s abode….
A woman kneels down in a pew…..praying…..the calm of the church mirrored in her peaceful face…..
The rain looks down at the city……..now, half awake…slowly stretching its limbs……..stirring from the depths of a restless rest…………awakening to the jangling of a bread earner’s faith……
The shower relents……..probably giving in to all the Monday morning groans and grumbles emanating from a city forced back into consciousness…..
Finally, all that remains is the moisture on the flower vendor’s tarpaulin and the shadow of the boatman’s song on the rippled river…….
L** oves to play on the computer

A lways humorous

U nique in every way

R unning, jumping, tumbling at gym

E xceptionally bright

L earner
In Acrostic poems, the first letters of each line are aligned vertically to form a word. The word often is the subject of the poem.

Note: This is not my own poem, this is just an example i got from this cool website.
(http://schools.pinellas.k12.fl.us/educators/tec/Tondreault/Kinds.html)
JeanlBouwer Apr 2010
A father, keeping up with the pace
Mother, applying makeup and mace
Son, competing in most important race
Daughter, content in lover’s embrace

Manager, profit earner, best company man
Beautiful and glamorous, archetypal woman
Athlete, top scholar and paper boy
Sweet sixteen now, this beautiful toy

All, a sublime rhyme

Man, estranged from family
Woman, battered so fiercely
Drug overdose, happen so easily
In her girlfriend’s arms, so happily

Family monarch, reduced to slave
Precious, caring, loving, now so brave
The candidate for the top, fighting the grave
Beautiful, innocent, naive, in girlfriend’s arms, so safe

Where, did we go wrong?
SE Reimer Oct 2013
When addiction runs deep,
Like the blood in our veins,
Its impossible to kick,
Unlikely to abstain.
For we are what we love,  
And we love what we are;
It’s said that an apple, 
From its tree won't roll far.

Her parents were junkies,
Generations gone by,
So deep in her blood,
It’d be cruel to deny.
I’ve found in resistance,
I beat my head on a brick,
So no longer at odds,
I embrace life as her fix.

“Honey, can you fix this?”
She says, smiling at the sale.
At the lamp I look closely,
It stands tired and frail;
It's brass tarnished dark, 
Its wire is frayed.
In my head I say, “No," then,
“Sure babe,” someone else said.

Believing I’ve dodged one, 
I breathe a sigh of relief;
We return to our Jeep, and
Drive away down the street.
Then I glance in the mirror,
And what do I see,
It’s that LAMP in my back seat,
Staring smugly at me.

“This dresser will be cool,
In robin's-egg-blue;”

Just describing the hue,
I see her almost drool.
“Yeah, natural on top,
It's frame painted, then glazed...
You’re the best at glueing drawers!”

She adds icing with praise.

“Look, here’s a chair I found,
with pretty calico;
If you fix it's broken arm,
You’ll be my hero!
Cuz I am sure it will fetch, 
Ten times what I've paid.”

I’m a wage earner no longer,
She pays me in accolades.

That bowl with mustard yellow,
Picture frames of wood & plaster;
An old tin box, and this small broach,
A barrel chest with leather straps.
A jewelry box, 
(A lover’s locket found inside)
Each purchase she makes,
Adds satisfaction, and pride.

Her addiction runs deep,
She’s my bargain-maker;
Not a corporate girl, 
But she’s a mover and shaker.
Yes, she's my ******,
And I am her fix;
Together we’re a duo,
"Can we peak in your attic?"

In my chair as I write this,
I feel something, turn and see;
And there pinned to the cushion, 
Is a price tag poking me.
Now I’m nervous as a cat,
Wouldn’t want to fall asleep;
For fear I could wake up, 
In the back of someone else's Jeep!
************************************
My wife, born to parents who met at an auction, grew up in her family’s business,; some call in antiquing, some collectibles, some estate sales, but we call it junking.  After years away from the business, she has returned to selling at vintage shows.  We tease and kid each other, but make no mistake about it, she is excellent at what she does, particularly in restoring wood furniture!  I love working with her on those pieces that require four hands.
the oldest profession
doth bring much needed funds
housewives and mothers walking the streets
to supplement the household income
Mrs Jones is plying her female wares
in a motel suite somewhere
those extra dollars
shall pay the education fees
for her daughter Claire
as day to day living
isn't cheap
mothers and wives working the pavement
at any given time
the money they receive is a bonus
a nice little earner
a few bucks can be most helpful  
as the family budget oft sinks in a well
these women don't haggle
with their clients too much
they give them what they want
and in return get what they need
a dime is a dime
it can be so useful
when the fortnightly paycheck
is so skint
the ladies of the night
aren't always in the game for the purposes of romping
they're lying on their backs
to fill the hole
in the domestic
piggy bank
Daipayan Nair May 2017
There should appear some respite,
despite
the fact, I am a Nyctophile
as I too love my collapsing sight
I too flicker in the bright.
Like an earner without his earning
The dark existence,
by the sphere that lurks, partially satiated
'See-Saw' a fodder for human poets
The other aspect, totally denied.
Skin is imbalanced
which showers mixed colors
Why not an equilibrium?
Vampires licking honeyed sanity
The sane too, join the party.
But, if he complies, they wouldn't
If she complies, they wouldn't
Fluctuations are eminent
There should appear some respite,
despite
the fact, I am a dust stained file
as I too love my collapsing might
I too flicker in the bright.
They talked about him as the one
who none had ever seen smile.

You couldn't gauge
if he was happy or depressed
no emoji could describe
the repressed expression
but all said
he was dutiful.

Caring husband and father
responsible family head
silent bread earner.

His constant arrangement made sure
the home was neatly organized
not one object was out of place
and but for the children
it would have been hard to guess
if he ever met his wife privately
summing up him to be named
robot
and the belief in his name was strong.

When his wife died
he wailed so loud
it could be heard beyond town.

To the neighbors,
it was mechanical breakdown.
real page turner
real money earner
feed the kids
pay the bills
keep the wife
happy life?

white picket fence
my two cents,
its picturesque.

salt and pepper
go set the table
say your prayers
make your bed
clean the house
catch the mouse

two car garage
bi-weekly massage
clip your nails
cut your hair
tuck in your shirt
wash off the dirt

the american dream,
simply ins't for me
the military industrial complex
are making a killing
the arms trade
is a profitable business
billions are harvested
by the grey suited men
the war machine
supplies deadly payloads
collateral damage
always yields such a tidy sum
why interrupt or put paid
to a great earner
the balance sheet
must be in the black
production lines
busy filling orders
each day
the bullet
the bomb
the drone
sold to effectively obliterate
and take lives away
in corporate offices
the arms dealers
rub their hands
with glee
as they amass a bounty
from their lethal armories
Soma Mukherjee Jul 2011
I could have been this and I could been have that,
But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat.

I could have been like her, a very big star,
But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far.

I had the grace; I could have been a dancer,
But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers.

I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer,
But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer.

I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter,
But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter.

I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted,
All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted.

Is it too late to start again?
Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain?

Just let go of all resentments and start!
And not let the past tear my present and future apart!

It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long,
Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong.

Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life,
I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife.

Yes, that’s the way to go;
I will give my best shot to my dreams
and what I always wanted to be,
For if the world ends tomorrow
I will be contented and proud
to have taken that dip
and rescued me.
In God we trust but the economy went bust and we ain't got a crust of bread.
Got no lead in my pencil,no ink in my pen and I'm wondering when my memory's going to go.
and I'm getting slow,
I remember a time or it may recall me, when as a young man of twenty ,or two maybe three, I was wealthy and healthy and full of it all but then came the crash and I started to fall.
And I dropped,stopped being an earner, learnt to survive on week old stale pies and hand outs, the hand me down,the other side of life in any big town,
where you pay your trust to the temples of dust and the soup comes free,with a touch of religion on the crust of dry bread and sometime's I think that God must be dead.

We do as we do and we can't do no more and the poor will always be poured down the drain,thrown out of the door,not let in,begging on street corners,
don't they look thin!

They do as they do and they do it so well and they got us believing in a new branding of hell where the adverts pervert the minds of the young and that nothing good comes from it being homespun and the gun at your head is something to think of and, is God really dead?

Led to the queue and waiting in line for another strangulation,I am choking on time.
I want what's mine,give me my due
You own it all
for now.
Soma Mukherjee Jul 2011
I could have been this and I could been have that,
But there were too many hurdles and the plans fell flat.

I could have been like her, a very big star,
But my bad luck, opportunities were few and far.

I had the grace; I could have been a dancer,
But there were too many objections with no solutions or answers.

I had a sweet voice; I could have been a singer,
But I was sole earner of family, and it sponged me dry like a wringer.

I played so well with colours, I could have been a painter,
But the paints were costly and with no one to guide, dreams became fainter.

I had skills; I could have been anything I wanted,
All I needed was a spirit which would have saved me from being daunted.

Is it too late to start again?
Pick up the brush or the pen and let my dreams be my swain?

Just let go of all resentments and start!
And not let the past tear my present and future apart!

It has been so tiring, carrying disappointments and resentments for so long,
Let me start fresh as if I was born today, fire the passion and let it grow strong.

Yes, that's what I will do, I owe it to myself and this god gifted life,
I will not cry over what I didn't get, instead use gift and opportunities which today are rife.

Yes, that’s the way to go; I will give my best shot to my dreams and what I always wanted to be,
For if the world ends tomorrow I will be contented and proud to have taken that dip and rescued me.
Some Person Aug 2015
I have tried for too long
to fit into your various segments
I have played the roles of
Christian
Passionate lover
Rebellious son
The perfect one-night stand
Intelligent workplace hero
Humble soccer talent
Competitive PC gamer
College graduate, master's holder
Friend with benefits
Big earner
*** addict in recovery
Devoted husband
Home updater
Fun party guy
Deep-thinking poet
Music-lover, dancer

I fit into none of the roles you have to offer.

I am a primate with a more sophisticated brain and a cleaner body. I declare this with reluctant disappointment.

An observer would see our race developing, bodies and populations increasing in complexity and order; patterns like cities, data flowing through fiber cables, and social constructs aligning like carbon atoms becoming a diamond.

But we will not reach the perfection of a lab-created stone.

We have significant inclusions,
The most glaring of which is purposelessness.

Is there anyone watching?
You think a movie camera follows you,
a film crew watching everything you do and so you play that lifetime role,
rolling down the blinds at number fifty one
you think the film is rolling on,
each scene a scene where you have been, each whisper that you hear is taped, replayed,
play it by ear you could be on an earner,
turn a page or two, do you think the audience is watching what you do?
do you undress behind the silver mirrored made in Hong Kong screen and have you seen the rushes yet?

I bet the editor has made the final cut, but you think they'll watch the film in which you star
if a movie camera really follows you.
Gordon Fussey Aug 2017
She told me of the horse that flew
The horse with a name that Egyptians knew
She told me of the hanging tree
With roots that cried and caressed the dew
She told me tales of a lightening storm
That flashed an Eskimo cold to warm

     And in her eyes I saw other stories
     Just as important as Dali's glories

Jane sat on a pine kitchen chair in the corner
of the room. In her left hand she held nineteen
ninety-nine, in her other, my eyes. I kissed her
on the cheek and asked her a question.

She told me of a white paper brick
That glided through air six foot thick
She told me of Christians that got wasted at lent
That prayed for the light through a gap in a tent
She told me of Magritte, ******* and Turner
And a boy in India selling organs as an earner

     And in her eyes I saw other stories
     As bright as the Ursa's universal glories

I asked Jane another question and she fused
It must have been the sixth time in a month
Gordon Fussey
Written by
Gordon Fussey
(M)
M G Hsieh May 2016
I do not see
beyond the might,
yet perceive
more than ought.
The craving of
a learned tale,
ability to carve out
an excuse to crave.

Hail to the conquerors!
Teller of greatness,
earner of sympathy,
foreteller of justice,
bearer of magnanimity.
We survive you.

Hail to the losers!
The day waits for you,
the night delights, passing
thoughts escape into
imagining immaterial
basis of deeds.

Soon, the distance between
falls near and
neither escapes surety.
"Love     of     A   Poetess  " by   Nadia umber Lodhi

You    are   love  of  a poetess, my beloved,

Reflects    from  my words ever,

Forget  you  never,

My   passion    increase  ever,

My   Love       decrease   never ,

You  are  love  of   a  poetess, my beloved

You   are   the   Magic   of   a words   magician,

You   are   the   business of a pain earner,

I   shall  write departure, loneliness   and tears,

I   shall   describe fears,

And   earn   income.

You   are  love  of  a    poetess , my beloved

I shall  sell dreams, earn profit,

How   can  I gain  loss,

No   Never, my dear

I   sold    my    heart,  my dear

One   and   Only  wealth   I  have.

————  
Nadia umber lodhi,
Islamabad .
Pakistan.
Love poem
Title the world, once I branded, ex bandit, cats cant stand it,
Watch me out land it, crashed on plymouth rock, hard knocks,
From the cops, when my homie had to make the quick drops,
Slouchy, mighty touchy, when the shotti, next to me, easy,
Come easy, go rilling in dough,
Pillysbury style, saw miles, before I walked my first dials,
On the phone, tryna get a wet bone, link back at the zone,
My home, my throne, guard it like Jeffer-son, soothe baritone,
Paul Williams, of the industry, pass cloud nine to ten, chemistry,
Check the geometry, of my lady, back side banging mercedes,
Whoa!, to our future kids, if we got problems ma, let's just dig,
Solve our own problems, before the media robs em, stab em,
With the vocal, shot off words like a pist-al, slows sips of cristal,
Ice dripping off the crystal, ***** of a disco, sparkling slow mo,
Take it back, to the soul train, dance hall, baby let's ball gall,
For your love, from others sisters to brothers and many others,
Love to spread, the butter haters under, slash the thunder,
Lightening strikes, before midnight, picture my sight iight,
Cold dreaming, dont waste the *****, succubus tag teaming,
I must be seeing, things ain't so supreme, I'm a just a humanbeing,
Mortal, but my souls immortal, saw life after death, it was pleasant,
Had undercover peasant,
Worship the presence, over the past, listen to the music, back mask,
Hold up, unveil the last, break the task, move fast as Nash,
Power bomb ya intellect, with the shells of my medulla, selects,
Bring down ya threats, no sweat, but heat off my baguettes,
Icy dripping wet, like girls pearls, I'm still taking on the world,
Hold my status, the baddest, since Jesse James, detain the lames,



Made on the back burners, of sin, born in, to a false religion,
Call us stool pigeons, for playing a masculine positions,
Saw ambitions, of wishing  twinkle star still mixing, kissing,
My dreams goodbye, just another lullaby, so gangstified,
How many of ya peeps tried, failed and hoped you died,
But I took the critics, and buried em, with a fist of rhymes,
Dimes, over pennies, watch em turn Guinea, more than plenty,
Rhymes I got, keep it going til I body rot, its bone **** plot,
Take the bullets from malcolm, and Kennedy, reload it,
Unload it,at my enemies, playing friends of me, raunchy cronies,
Form a rap colony, with no apology, resurrect my ancestry bodies,
Come back, revert the track, murk the masters, of the disaster,
Nat Turner, blaster with the burner, independent learner,
Since the schools, failed me as a, successful earner,
Had to learn tha, hard way stress was building away, always,
Caught a smoke sessions, wild days of my hay day, blazing hay,
No delays, on time, all I saw was, dollar signs, snake lines,
We was all made to fail by design, see the peace sign, rewind,
Check the history, ain't got nothing to do with freedom see?,
Society for what, it really is, put that on my mints n kids,
Future ain't nothing, too bright two shades of butter white,
But I'm a still a *****, focused michete sharp as finger trigger,
Itchin, for a twitching, fast as a blast, now ya mans, in a cask-
-et, looking well fit, tuxedo snort rush fast adrenaline like DeVito,
Cab riding, off the cookie show, mystery meat glow,
Soylent green, love a diva surpeme, like a scorpion stings,
Sings of siren, got me admiring, pretty girls spark the swirls,
Got the little boys, puberty yelling, but without a noise,
Qualyxian Quest Mar 2021
I'm 51 years old
Since 5 a true page turner

Nearly twenty years a teacher
That's how I was an earner

Now I'm unemployed
But inside I'm still a yearner

Please, dear God, O please!
Make me a lovelight learner!
Pluck Feb 2024
Presenting to a room of hundreds has ceased to be a challenge, writing has become severely easy.

I’ve submitted to my generosity, I’m closer to giving all away than the ability to be greedy.

Spiritual discipline would be an underwhelming description, I’ve incinerated my former self.

Minimalist is an identity I can claim, a high earner inhabiting a dorm with shelves.

My daily duties for my career are child’s play, thus there is only one challenge in my life I can find.

Oh does this fill me with unbearable joy, for It is the outlier on the list, a simple matter of time.

Thus, my script is not egotistical, such is not my kind.

I am simply observing that all in my life but one thing, has risen to accompany my level of rhyme.

So, Give It time.

— The End —