Paul Anthony's Gifted Curse (Poet)

Momma named me Paul Anthony, the world calls me Poet,Gifted tongue, a curse or blessing? Even I don't fully know it.

Writing scripts 'bout him, her, me, and y'all,

Scribing tears on concrete walls ‘til ink rivers fall.

Gifted curse, my pen’s both blade and balm,

I write the chaos, make it sound calm.

Momma gave the name, God gave me art,

Pour every life into lines, rip the truth apart.

Dirt roads whisper, same as silk streets hum,

Craft poems for the quiet, I give a voice to those that can't speak,voice's of the numb,Picked up the cross, it's heavy on my wrist,Each stanza cuts deep like a forged iron fist.Reached down low where the shadows lie,Found his story, her pain, our shared cry.

Put their worlds to paper, fingers catch fire,

Every word etched with both wrath and desire.

Momma named me Paul Anthony, got a heavy handed pen,Pages soaked in ink, that's how my sermons begin.Gifted curse in my veins, writing stories so true,About you, them, her, me, and him too.Boy they call me Poet, God split the flow with a spark,Carving tales in the day, penning prayers in the dark.Pages scream out my soul, leave my truth in the air,Every rhyme sharp as steel, every stanza a prayer.Spitting southside real, swamp swagger in my step,Tales of struggle and hope where the red clay is kept.Poems for the broken, bruised, forgotten, and mended,My ink bleeds for the world, a truth never pretended.Chains on my wrist, but freedom’s in my mind,Gift and curse intertwined, a blessing hard to find.God’s whisper in my head, the verses I rehearse,Life’s melody crafted in this lyrical curse.For every nameless face, and every lost fight,

I scratch hope on these pages, keep y’all burning bright.

Momma birthed A Poet, God gave me the bars,

Write poems so heavy, leave my audience scars.

Call it the gift, call it the curse that I bear,

World sees my pen, they feel the fire in my stare.

Got the south in my cadence, got the truth in the glow,

Ain’t no shame in these lines, this is how I flow.

I’ve written for the sinner, the saint, the damned,

Pulled grief from the preacher, from the farmer’s hand.

Broken boys in dope fogs, lost girls with scarred faces,

I ink their truth, document broken places.

Momma named me Paul Anthony, got a heavy handed pen,

Pages soaked in ink, that's how my sermons begin.

Gifted curse in my veins, writing stories so true,

About you, them, her, me, and him too.

Boy they call me Poet, God split the flow with a spark,

Carving tales in the day, penning prayers in the dark.

Pages scream out my soul, leave my truth in the air,

Every rhyme sharp as steel, every stanza a prayer

Spitting southside real, swamp swagger in my step,

Tales of struggle and hope where the red clay is kept.

Poems for the broken, bruised, forgotten, and mended,

My ink bleeds for the world, a truth never pretended.

Chains on my wrist, but freedom’s in my mind,

Gift and curse intertwined, a blessing hard to find.

God’s whisper in my head, the verses I rehearse,

Life’s Melody a gifted curse..