I grasp the mic
Like I asked it to give my lyrics
life.
Living inside a three pound
universe, so much strife.
Acting out like I wanna act like a
Gangsta riding at night,
Headlights off, off, off.
Everything’s off on demand.
Cable connections are unstable.
The picture ain’t really clear.
Still, I am able to turn tables
Like DJs and clever strategists
Standing in the rear, refusing to
Put up fronts until the perfect catalyst
Appears, perhaps it’s
A drunken sailor battling the perfect
storm, Weather or not
he’s weathering knots
He still sees a sea of deceit, which
flows
Every which way like
Unpredictable plots
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