Bloody note pads, the ink drips like crime scenes,
Thoughts tied down, zippered up, haunted dreams.
Toe-tagged verses, bodies lined in the lab,
My mind's a hearse, rolling slow, no need for a cab.[Verse]
Bloody notes drippin', pads soaked in red wine
Mind boxed in shadows, death clock’s mine to define
Toe-tag dreams, zipped up in body bags of fear
Coroner's van in my thoughts, nightmare chauffeur's leer
Click-clack the pen, Russian roulette in my veins
Automatic ink spilling, painting shadows with pain
Triggering my rhymes, ain't a jam in the plan
Cemeteries echo my name, I'm the lyrical man
Mind's a haunted alley, words a click in the night
Murky depths of the South, where the dark meets light
Gasoline syllables, sparking flame in my head
Playing chess in the devil's den, where angels tread
Soul strapped in the corner, pen blade in my grip
Each rhyme a confession, from this ink, I sip
Script my past in charcoal, ashes across my hand
Speak of pain and glory, Dirty South where I stand
Click-clack the pen, Russian roulette in my veins
Automatic ink spilling, painting shadows with pain
Triggering my rhymes, ain't a jam in the plan
Cemeteries echo my name, I'm the lyrical man
Spilling truth from tongues, words dance on a pyre
Blood moon overhead, feeding my burning fire
Lines etched on scalps, rhymes echo in skull
My flow's a last rite sermon, darkness turned full
Coroner’s van of rhymes, loaded with decay,
Russian roulette pen sprays words to slay.
Automatic flow, endless clip of pain,
Cocked and ready, storms ride my brain.]
Graveyard thoughts, digging plots in these sheets,
Each stanza a tombstone, haunting beats.
Chalk outlines of metaphors, vivid and clear,
Death in my verses, but the crowd draws near.
Coroner’s van of rhymes, loaded with decay,
Russian roulette pen sprays words to slay.
Automatic flow, endless clip of pain,
Cocked and ready, storms ride my brain.
Exorcist of emotions, ink’s black confession,
Burial of my fears in lyrical progression.
Flow fatal, syllables slash like scalpel blades,
Buried alive in the lines, but truth invades.
Bullets of verbs ricochet inside the rhyme,
Dodging every doubt, leaving scars over time.
Pens cocked back, trigger words from the dome,
Coroner's van, and I call this dark space home.
Poet419
