Dim light, it’s getting hard to see the pencil strokes - you-see.
I sit here late at night, reading posts, tell me to keep up the in-ten-sity.
Someone should tell the same to my candle, I tried to move to the other room, but not possible when your candle has a broken handle. Like riding a horse without a saddle, a Babylon without babble. And judges without gavels.
I’m channeling my inner Poe, I’m black, but not a crow.
Stickin’ it to hip hop and poetry, this is what you get if Kriss Kross tried to flow with me.
Maybe I’m backwards, I write books in book stores - tried sliding my writing on a-shelf/ and said I published it myself/ xD
Cover’s battered, shirt on my back’s tattered.
The words in my head can beat me like an old sock/, where toes get caught/, but now around body parts that aren’t meant to wear socks/… Hands... you and your naughty thoughts/...