WhyNOT

Achipped cup, my cup this  inhabit,
not genuine as before all knew not of me 
but earth-formed, subject to the uneven heat.
Thurmal view now( enjoying the show)

    are visible,  of my often ( fa sho )thin.
( ain't got shit)
Iam not the perfect soul you seek to define,
Steppin and sllidden nah
Different, or now,really different 
Prior, uniqueness of an individual  ,  missed it, still do, 
no flagelent attentive to none,fuck it I'm dead anyways right, I told  myself not to  mirror cause  reflecting pure death isn't entertaining 

Look around this breathing sphere,
Life
this shared ground we call humanity,
Now for the self to tell self, self ,the fuck you down sized critisized, their demand to be a individual  that was never known. Now can assume you dignity you don't  get back as well as the genuinely of thyself, to focused on yah,okay what ever
Guy, ( this guy is a j I ke,  Where's his super heros)
What the hall ,theirs no us and tell me where  your fee fee huh BITCH. IM BORN PERFECTIION YOU MISINTERPRETATED TOO A SPECIAL NOT ALL THEIR perfection I PRACTICE MOW FUCKNMY LIFE ALL TOGETHER, YOU DONTBDECERVE ME
 HELL YAH DISRESPECTFUL,FUCK IT WHAT WE GOT,


NOITING ..


FUCKED EXCEPTS ME 

  takes root.
It is NOW THE FUCK  of striving, FOR WHAT 
a tangled garden of beautiful BITCH MADE 
DEATH

My path is illuminated, yes,
by the ancient, steady light
the Word, a guiding thread woventhrough the earliest tapestries of thought,
the foundational works left by those who laboredto sketch the shape of what is true.

Iturn to those original blueprints,
the heavy, time-worn volumes,
seeking the essence, the core instruction,
where deeper meaning might unfold for my seeking eyes.

Because I am simply man, imperfectly assembled,
my comprehension fumbling at the edges of vastness.
My not-knowing is a constant companion.

But within this very falling short,
this very human stumbling,
lies the grace of connection.

There are those whose journey has etched wisdom deep,
whose years have polished rough edges into gentle curves.
The experienced walk among us,
their maturity a quiet harbor.

They offer the compass point,
not ruling from a height,
but sharing the well-read map.

For the goodness we all crave,
that shared horizon of well-being,
requires this delicate balance.

For the security of every tongue,
every custom held close by its people,
needs a hand steady enough to guide,
to keep the complex machinery turning,
aligned not by rigid uniformity,
but by mutual respect for the mechanism itself.

We lean on these seasoned voices,
these anchors in the shifting a,
to remind this flawed self,
and this flawed collective,
how to function together,
how to maintain the rhythm,
even with the constant hum of imperfection vibrating beneath our feet.

Iam a work in progress,
a collection of flawed attempts,
but I carry the desire to learn,
to follow the lessons etched by time and truth,
guided by those who have seen more seasons turn.
That, perhaps, is a kind of beauty too.

rap, trap 808. High hats, and dark eep bass