I mic what I like
much like I write what I will.
I keep and allow the words
to seep into and through me still.
I drop rhymes so ill they make
me sick to the pit with the
motions of the kill.

As they roll off my tongue
I feel them hung, slung
against the walls of my cheeks
where the smell and the sound of the
beat reeks.

Yuck, so strong and tough these
words that flow like water to
quench the thirst, they squelch
between my teeth and land
on paper.


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