Loser
 

Living. A breathing weapon spitting; a demon from conception. It's written, I believe it. I'm destined. It must be, it ain't even a question. Smokin weed with the reverend. Hopefully he'll listen. No, don't leave! I miss him.

Hollow entry. Fuck it, my bottles empty. I'm hollering, "Hit me!" Bothered and tipsy with a collar and fifteen dollars to get me a scholar to sit with me and toler - ate me and listen to my problems and not just positively hate me. It's aggravating. Agitating. Fuck, I'm just laughing and waiting on these faggots to face me. Acting crazy, scratching the rash from the rabies. Absolutely, it's a fact, you bastards can't take me. Fanatic. I can taste the lust on my tongue so I brush it on my gums 'cause I love when it's numb. Blood gushing from my nostrils like the nozzles busted up. Cough in a bucket. Awesome. Love it.

A Boston duchess crossed through sud pits where mud dropped from the clutch of hops. It's bubbling up top. It's got to be something. Sodomy, or possibly a love interest on the Internet. Ain't even had dinner yet, but it's a winner, bet. Deliver the check. I get her back to the room and fuck her ass. No lube. Sinner, yes. Hit her chest with my dick, spit, and left.

Shit.

This kids a mess.

Yep. Revealing. My depths concealed in eloquent feelings with a fellowship. Wielding jello and chips; squeeze the rillo with my lips. Spark. Flame. Things ain't hardly the same, but that's apart of the game. I'm kept heartless from pain. Karma contained was all bargained away. Partially insane. Martyred brain gone too far to change. Up late nights from Carson to Dave 'cause I was shunned from the daylight 'cause, well, it's hard to explain.

So I won't.

You wrote me a note and I hold it close. How hopeless is hope? Focus, no. I don't sleep. No peace. Home is an adobe in Rome. Alone, oh so lonely and cold. That's only what I know. I loathe me. The Loser. Supposedly I'm overly boozed up on locally brewed stuff. Slurred speech. Totally screwed up and burping ink. Nervous freak bringin words to the brink. Learned in think. I burn the weed with a Sherman team in Ger - many, I turn my seat. First to leave.

Worst decision ever.

I curse the forbidden, several verses I've mentioned the dirt I've been in and it's turning to cinnamon. It hurts. I'm getting ill. Little skill, but worth an Eminem. Given birth to illin' skill, killin' pills. Addicted. Just listen, I must mention the bus has a busted engine. But there's a train this way...

Fuck. This ain't my day.

Zany but concentrated. This is a calculated crazy. An acid trip that makes sense, only it rambles forever. I pulled Oliver Stone out of this. U-Turn's brand of random crazy shit. Needless to say, I liked it. Not really my bag, but it works for you.

Fire. Once I began, I read this at a very fast pace and it worked well. Explosive and flexible rhyme schemes careened this one from beginning to end. It kind of reminded me of an Eminem flow experiment, then you mentioned him at the end so it was a semi-confirmation that his exploits inspired yours.

lmao

The fifteen dollars part had a bananas flow to it.

Keep doing you

I read it as spoken word. It flowed well. I felt the frustrated tone throughout. What did you mean by "hollow entry?" That what you were writing i.e. the entry feels hollow?

The dirt to cinnamon line seemed a little odd. Throughout the piece you are rather sour to have dirt turn to cinnamon, which is sweet, seems a little confusing.

Keep doing.

Cimm