Wednesday, 13 May 2015

Skeleton Key

The door is closed shut,
but I see a key hole.
Te way that I see things,
turns it into a peephole.
What I see inside through the hole may seem small,
but I know once inside, it could become by all.

The way that I see it
makes the door no limit,
Behind it you'll find that
the mind never saw it.
A barrier only exists till you decide to overcome it
like the irritations of a fly before you decide to swat it.

As a wordsmith & key maker,
I unlock minds on lined paper,
I open doors to plains greater
than linear thoughts of self perceived over takers,
the truth may hurt or sometime provoke anger
but if I feel anything, know that I've done you a favor.

I've kicked down doors before
only to find two more,
I've broken down to the floor,
then built myself up to something more,
for all of those keepers of score,
"know that I hold the ball"

The skeleton keys knows
no locked doors,
or secrets at all...

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Every image...

Every image,
Delivered to scripture from Thought,
Grows horns and turns from, from a thought,
To a mood... on
A page.

Every image,
Birthed by the mind, and,
Manifested into an art-form will be, another image,
of you and will exist in time as you do,
For every rhyme is you... on
A page.

Every image,
Delivered into the mind, of the poetic interpreter,
Is a place, a being and a point in time.
When the poet dies, the image comes alive and lives, forever,
For every word is your birth...on
A page.

Every image,
Darkened by the black scent of burning angel flesh,
Epitomizes the being found underneath the skin, of he,
who's skin shines brown in the presence of eyes, but glows,
Red when translated into scripture... on
A page.

Every image,
Whispered into the ear of the accomplished listener,
Holds the essence, of the first soul to come into, contact,
With the eternal flames. Once harnessed, his plain of being
Was heightened and multiplies in scripture...on
A page.

Every image,
a page.

Monday, 12 December 2011

High Definition

I am,
both horns on the scull of the soulless.
I am,
all forms of the art at my fork end.
I represent
the darkness that comes with the death of a god send,
I represent
each flame of the fire that will
burn out to represent the worlds end.
I command
a soul given pen and a rhyme gifted hand,
I command
the tail at my back and the flames on my pad.
I offer
the worlds darkest depths
my vivid visions of no less
than the Devil man's best.
I encourage,
any and all to test...
If you can stand the heat
I got the flames,
I can play the soul and flame game while I wait.
The absence of light is imminent...

Sunday, 11 December 2011

Pre Holiday Scriptures

Excuse my vanity but I do feel sincerely,
that the art of image delivery to the brain,
vocally, using poetry,
Defines an art form unfathomed by the
facilitators of mediocrity.

My pulse beating through my
hands moves the ink pipe
& forces words onto the pad.
This makes me the soul of every pen,
I've ever held in my hand,
and my scriptures on fire
will be my hell.
Flaming scriptures and images will be,
my after life.
The flames between the lines
always light up my path at night...

Years of steroids for brains everyday
couldn't give you the brain power,
to play mind games with the gold medalist,
of word play.
If Jesus had died for poetry,
you'd say my name when you prayed
In Jack's name we pray,

my Mind Will Consume Me

my Mind Will Consume Me

Friday, 18 November 2011

The Blessings

Who are you he asked me,
I am he, who sways slow when the wind blows.
I am he who knows the ropes and ties the knots to a life defined,
by all that grows...
what the wise have always known,
is shown in all forms to me in ways the world will never see...