Watching me rap is pretty uncomfortable, so you might wanna imagine someone cooler talking to you for this one:
Her palms are sweaty,
knees weak, arms are heavy,
there’s a joint rolled already
and she can’t say no,
she’s got no self control.
Her arms are long,
there’s a song
lodged in her throat
and by the end of this poem you might know it.
She’s got diet coke cans on her window sill lying dormant
and half a gram of grass if you want it.
Sitting pretty on a bench labelled “for those departed,” but don’t get her started
on how terrifying mortality can be,
cause see she’s
on her mark and her legacy,
all the things she could be
but too busy
writing more goddamn poetry,
losing herself in the lines.
If insanity is repetition,
then what the fuck is writing?
Cause I’ve been scrawling love poems in my sleep and they all sound the same.
There’s only so many stars you can compare eyes to,
only so many demons you can grab by the throat.
I’m all out of metaphor
and as for similes, like
they ring the same.
Oh, your arms are
more like thunder than rain,
but so was the last lover.
And the one
And before that and that and…
You get the picture.
If you don’t, read another poem
cause it’s all been done before.
I’m the most lyrical example of plagiarism
to be knocking at your door.
Ginsberg’s got you covered. Or Bronte, maybe.
Hell, even fucking Eminem did it before me.
My palms are sweaty.
Lines weak, life is heavy,
like unwilling sleep mortality calls upon me.
I can’t get lost.
There’s always people waiting for me,
depending on me,
poems almost leaking from me.
the need to be heard, every word
like a blade
skirting amateur skin.
What a state I’m in!
Don’t tell me to lose myself Eminem,
I’m long gone,
practically making duels at dawn.
Call me Alex Hamilton
cause I’m obsessed with my legacy.
My biggest fear is being lost in the tidal wave of history.
Insignificance haunts my bed
cause I’m a stone
on a mountain face
but maybe that isn’t so bad.
Cause the truth is
there wouldn’t be a mountain without me
or the fresh flow of spring without every single leaf.
Honestly, it seems like history shouldn’t bug me
as much as being happy.
And I know that that sounds pretty sappy,
but the thing about mortality
is it’s sort of inescapable anyway.
Let the historians forget my bones,
and the blood we shed for these lines.
I no longer care. No longer
want to know
what will become of me when I am lost.