A Rehabilitated Prophecy

There are some things that some people live to regret…
Addictions that never should have happened,
but ish happens right?
I have a problem and it’s something that I’ve been trying to work through for years,
but I just can’t help myself.
So I felt like this would be the perfect time for me to start my apology.
To my family,
closest of friends,
and strangers wielding scoreboards,
I am so sorry that I…
…spit the hotness.
Lyrical mechanics that will transform your mind that’s why I renamed my pen allspark.
We make it happen.
Once the cap is off my pen there will be no rise of the fallen,
so you might as well call my ink Optimus.
My words cut cords to all mics that haven’t quite learned how to rock right,
but it’s alright,
just watch
and learn.
I don’t think you understand
Fuck a mic.
I shatter stages
bring down whole venues if I want to,
rape scoreboards,
and turn virgins,
into poetry whores.
I can’t rock skinny jeans because my rhymes won’t fit,
no one on this mic rock it better than muah.
I don’t even need the whole 3 minutes and 40 seconds to make you respect this.
I couldn’t be more cocky if I had one…
but it’s only when it comes to these ink spills.
My pen is so…
so…
so supercaliswaggalisticexpiswaggadocious!!
My pen is a Godsend.
It parts seas of mediocrity
and sings to the Heavens.
It be a blessing.
Rivaled only by my tongue,
I got ‘em lined up trying to drink my spit and bottle it.
They say that studies have proven that it can cure aliments such as:
writer’s block
wacktragicness
and the oh so deadly-
lack of creativity.
I be deemed poet
aka
architect.
I construct cathedrals of conscious that captivate corneas stimulate subliminal purpose.
I be
everything they never wanted me to be.
microphone mechanic,
jump start your voice box,
and tune up your note pad,
it’s time for an ink change.
Re-arrange your thought process.
I have a problem.
And I could be all cliché and tell you that I call myself a poetry junkie,
or that the mic calls to me,
or that I feign…
….for poetry.
But in reality Hip-Hop be my religion and poetry is my testimony.
My bible scriptures.
It is to me what the promise land is to Christians
or better yet what the cross was to Jesus.
A blessing and a curse,
a beautiful burden I am more than willing to carry.
Once upon a time they had this name for me…
it was something like,
like poet
no more like,
like prophet.
I have a message.
I carry it in my safe space
were all blessings and miracles are created and protected.
I birth verses.
My heartbeats in Haiku.
I carved sestinas and sonnets into my mother’s tubes until I ran out of room.
Pushed myself down into her womb.
I shouldn’t even be here
but I am.
I am them,
they are me,
we be poets.
Standing on stages with open rib cages
baring our souls just so we can try to feed yours.
We spit the hotness.
Respect this.
S P I T P O E T!!!!
And Go In.
I know that I am not the only one standing in the middle of this volcanic eruption,
I’m just the one taking the first step,
and I hope you all can accept my poetic apology.
Signed sincerely,
a rehabilitated prophecy.