My writing is haunted by my debauchery
And I feel like I’ve got these words under lock and key
So what the fuck is stopping me?
From reaching and striving and excelling to the top
Climb this fucking mountain until it looks like a little rock
But the climbing never stops
And the ghost is still stalking
Haunting what I say this poltergeist is steady calling
Waiting for me to start falling
So that I can be ripe for the pickings
Differing opinions tell me I should never listen
And that way my words will never glisten
I’ll hide them in my phone 
And tuck them shits away at home
So my mind will never roam
And I’ll never build a rome, make my words like Plato’s
My words are straight cement and your cave is made of playdoh
What more is left to say though?
I’m the best without a title?
My literary flow is heavy enough to put out fires?
So heavy that you need to add air to your tires?
Because they’re leaking and I’m thinking that I’m tired of all the writing
Sick of the allegory, euphemism, and analogy
Sick of creating art but artfully hiding it inside my mental faculties
But no because I yearn to spew fallacy
Living and loving like a heretic
Praising god as I lay and penetrate with my erectedness 
So fuck man, treat me like a leper
Push me off the cliff and to the side like cliff notes, because my lips are so clever
And I know your appetite is whetter 
Because despite all my doubts,
Despite my lack of clout, 
Despite the fact that I keep my writings hidden in house…
No one can touch the shit I spit from my mouth


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