Hip Hop Forum

Awoken from sleep is a man on a busy city street,
His rhythm is the track being beaten by many feet,
He's bitter, no sweets through broken, jagged teeth,
But he's with her, The Spirit Of Flow is all he keeps,
He spits long to himself on the woes of the world,
The stones it's hurled, thus a lonely story unfurls,
He scripts tomes on death, never diamonds or pearls,
His ink is blood, sweat, in his dome the paper curls,
By the mouth of an alley his appearance is shabby,
Flowing on visions he captures, wording images madly,
Sips a forty and breathes, hat is meager with change,
Is he deranged, can no one love a heathen estranged,
A cloud covers the sun, so his eyes match suit,
Crow's feet perched where his soul cracked through,
The truth is a verse he couldn't draft for two,
For his hurt is a kind that only loneliness brews,
He's talking to himself, it's a beautiful soliloquy,
Just him, the world, and the honesty division brings,
Falling to the bottom, bottling pretentious things,
Wallowing in puddles of the pity his condition eats,
Sweet sleeps in between sheets don't grow cold,
Streets freeze live meat to dead bones on old souls,
Cleave blind peace to shreds, leave the rest whole,
Life seems to cease, no priest to help him let go,
Some nights when the light's low, in a slight snow,
Open your eyes, and let go of all these tight holds,
Listen close for the knowledge a prophet once spoke,
A lyrical ghost chilling with The Spirit Of Flow.