This is not a test, it’s complexity
Imagine closely, hear this slowly
I write poems, that leave minds numb.
These words stick, in heads like gum.
I’m the true poet author, as I age
my mind is sharper, like gillette
blue razors. I respect my elders,
of both genders, since my heart is tender.
So I’m humble with my endeavors.
Smart, but never clever.
My love is pure, I’m a savior.
The mechanism of me as a writer,
is similar, to the Manhattan Project.
Ready to explode like nuclear weapons,
but keep my composure
by thanking Jesus for helping me discover,
my true nature of unique metaphors.
The immortality of my poetry,
heals the sickly mentally.
Bitter without discipline, put limits
to positive emotions.
Angriness, lead to mistakes because of hastiness.
The measure of toture takes place
when the truth is not heard, but viewed.
Hatred of the truth, is a marathon and your endurance doesn’t improve.
What ripens is your skin, becoming thick
like smoke, from memorial day barbecues.
Feelings are intangible like souls, emotions are buried like gold.
Forced smiles stretch like rubberbands, snaps your heart, when the body gets old.
Poetry don’t dissemble what’s real, life is ungentle, crime is intentional, the blueprint,
of success is confidential, alot of lives are accidental, the outcome is unpredictable, when sins vicious like pitbulls.
There’s no sequal, souls will burn beneath you.
No crossing guard whistle to guide you, the road’s narrow with a beautiful view.
Be lead by the archangel, carrying souls above you.