Ever since the age of 10 I had poetical gears that would spin in my dome at home. Beginning in gear one with pen at hand as I roam polishing my poetical mind from tin to chrome while feeling like I was in the loony bin in my honeycomb.
The atmosphere was hollow and I was hard to follow but I really was in a transformation into a new tomorrow from a gear one into two as I start anew in a stronger mindset and brighter spirit.
Now ready to start anew it’s time to shift into gear two. Mixin’ poetical thoughts like stew changing its texture through n’ through til it sticks like glue. I’m tired of feeling blue, it’s time to take off this shoe and walk a new walk in a path chosen by the few with a one of a kind view and good fruits to chew.
I’m hungry for a transformation down to my very foundation. Food for thought in poetical formation, I feel like i could eat a combination of the earth’s vegetation and music that absorbs my frustration to the point I have a mutation and become a poetical-lyrical genius with an explanation!
Now on gear three of a poetical lyrical spree my imagination accelerates to the finish line like a drag race between a Camaro Chevy and Challenger Chevy. All I can do is go heavy in poetical thoughts in fast forward til I catapult and smack my name as number one on the board without even using a vocal cord. For there is no need to when pen is mightier than sword and I already sliced n’ diced every unbroken record!
Now switchin’ it up to gear four it’s time to put the metal to the petal and hit the floor as I rhyme evermore forever more than ever before from the core of every pore when I’m still poor and knocking on opportunity’s door always wanting more so I can show the world what’s in store within the infinite depths of my core and God-fearing spirit that dominates everything in my path as though I were doing hardcore poetical parkour not touching the floor and breaking every score ‘cause the heavens are the limits and the place I aim for!
By the time you finish reading this you’ll break the law of physics and your jaw will hit the floor. Because when I wrote this I was homeless but obviously not domeless. I should bring Einstein back alive to rewrite the statistics of physics while I kick poetical ballistics and my rhymes form a corps and hit the dance floor till the tall clock at the dock by the block hits four and hits five then screams “I never felt so alive!”
Because when I rhyme at the right time in my prime I feel like I’m driftin’ in times upliftin’ as my poetical gears rages on like two all-American-muscle cars demolishing mountains into mole hills. If this isn’t enough to make a 21 year old stoked then I don’t know what will other than a bigger hill!
Zine Project Seattle 