synfull

FLESH CANNIBAL WORD SPITTER (or what the fuck can i write for the open mic tonight?)

i gotta spit a good piece so you can feel my disease creep off of me
like old peeling paint
i gotta paint a diction picture of a tortured saint before you notice my
hands shaking and my voice goes hoarse and faint
inside the lame sing-song rhymes hides a monster who feeds
on his own flesh
this twisted self-esteem cannibal
who gets off on the soft tearing of skin and peels and chews away at the very layers
that he count on to protect him from the townsfolks glaring eyes
(and whose torches of fire further fuel the flames and beat the drums
of his own dumb devouring)
minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, eating and spitting, eating and spitting
until theres nothing left but a pulpy mass
upon the stage to rage against the microphone machine
alone, staring into the silence or the murmur or the
dull hum of lighting

i gotta spit a good piece so you can feel my disease creep off of me
like old peeling paint
i gotta paint a diction picture of a tortured saint before you notice my
hands shaking and my voice goes hoarse and faint
inside the lame sing-song rhymes hides a monster who feeds
on his own FLESH
this twisted self-esteem CANNIBAL
who hands his work, dripping skin, soul matter and WORDS to you
comfortably disturbed with the absurd, silly, SPIT and blood covered truth
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this is my most recent poem that i never got to read at an open mic. i think i'm going to post it on "poetry kicks ass" too. call me redundant. call me a comment whore....yeah, i'll be your whore.