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,
Masters...
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