[Certain]

Open Mic Cypher entries
Only includes entries longer than two couplets

Posted on March 8, 2015

I once flew too close to the sun.
On broken wings. Rubber factory burning smell.
Exposed as we run, we became hopeless
overdosing on rum and turning sail
into the ocean. Deeper. Colder. Soaking our lungs
in air thick with the dew. Smog. Corrosive and drunk.
We learned to fail.



Posted on Jan. 24, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

The cloud blooms. The broken sound room
has a creaking door and a creaking floor
but we've seen more. I found you
underneath the floor with loud hooves
trampling over your scenic moor.
The demon hoards never kept my dreams aboard
when they hit the skies and drowned truths
in quick demise. Because we picked disguises
but never put the masks on.
I used to confound you with quirks and quickly lied
to say I never found you less than simply mine.



Posted on Jan. 21, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

I prefer different strokes
to happy days.
A passive phase,
tapping pages out as a flat-earth castaway.
There's no going home,
so pack and wave.
Retractions came, mistakes were made and passion fades.
We're better now. Better than the last charade.
Better than the crash and wane of tides,
taking sides
as we fight about fuzzy memories erased from time.
Patience hides in the crevices of seat cushions,
and we're sharing one. For now.
In the bitter cold of wasted lies and the uncaring Sun.
It'll brave a rise tomorrow. Will you?
Will you dare to run?



Posted on Jan. 21, 2015, at ProjectRhyme.com

You're not much to me. Never were.
Rehearsed speeches unsaid. Jealous nerds
and the temptress with bleach in her head.
Scenic. They said we'd sell our worth
but Jesus had left before we fell to earth.



Posted on Oct. 18, 2014

Timidly, I wore though my broken shoes,
a broken hue, a spoken truth evoked when you
moved here. Moved there. We wrote in clues
desperate for something more than votive cues.
I wanted to tell you I dreamt of another place.
Hammocks. Sandlewood drifting on a summer day.
Fingers interlocking. Touch a face. Once astray,
you're better off now. Stuffed away in cuffs and chains.



Posted on Sept. 2, 2014

Library drifter. Big steps. Avoiding the dead men.
We've broken barriers, but all this consorting upsets friends.
Lothario of Army Road, determined to court 'til the bed dents.
Inflicting irreverance, weed smoke lifting my testaments;
be even a little bit hesitant and belittle the entire experiment.
Cigarettes, coffee, incredulous: Cliché kids destined for worse
than their picturesque parents had. Depressing at first,
but through limited scope, broken rhythms fitting the poems
never quite swell up to the ideal equalibrium dose.
This is the sinner's repose: barrel chest, bloodshot eyes,
broken confidence. An open monument to cold despondence.
Carelessness. The plot dies. The story ends. The pages turn.
The stage is set for the grand monologue. So wait and learn.
Wages earned are wages spent. Day by day, we slave for rent,
but cages break and craves are left unfulfilled in graceless death.



Posted on July 19, 2013

I'm devastating. Revolted sort, salt the earth and scatter your limbs and organs across the dirt. The patterns are quick to morph and at anytime I'll bend a rhyme. Like Saturn's rings in orbit I'm often warped. Speed. Please. End this line of casualities. It's morbid. The saddest scene since Norbit. But I'm 48 hours away from battery with torrid blasphemy. Ignorant? But I'll never sing a chorus. Just let you cower in pain.



Posted on Jan. 24, 2013

This is the non-confessional diary of an empty shoe,
left behind in the vestibule,
set to die as a vegetable.
Spinach. In a can. Wider aisles to enter through
at this grocery store. I'm open. You're closed.
Times align with the crescent moon.



Posted on Sept. 16, 2013

Souvlaki, souvlaki, with pork on a spit and my beef is pastrami.
Shepherd salad and feta, ain't nothing better than olive salami.
It's ill and delicious, I'm killing these dishes: Robert Mugabe.
Flip the pita with tongs, tzatziki spooned on and the sauce is tahini,
and the pairing goes best with the fairest of reds or a vodka martini.



Posted on Sept. 3, 2013

If I ever started a rap crew, I'd call it Puddle of Thug.
If that's not subtle enough, you can get jumped by a slug.
I'm drunk and I'm slumping in love, so my temper's perking,
but I'd rather be touching my pump than your empty surface.
The noise is just that. I can't make out the words.
The slump is just that. I haven't made out with girls.
But whatever. I'm so over sex anyway,
laying here like "whatever," cuddling a corduroy tapestry.



Posted on Aug. 2, 2013

Just wait righ' quick, my brain's buffering crazy shit,
while you're stuffing your anuses with duffle-bag avarice.
This untouchable flame of spit comes from my pain that's flipped
to something more flagrant than Chuck in the lane against a dunk or a layup.
Shit, I'm done with this broken rhyme.
Stuck in a hopeless time, I'm struggling holding dimes.
So buckle up, open wide, get fucked. Yup, we're both in line.
Subtlety's old and dying but if we grope and try
to double the rope to climb maybe we'll stumble out, both alive.



Posted on July 31, 2013

I'm not here to resurrect the dead.
But if that includes hip hop,
I'm here to represent the end.
My present tense is irreverent. After y'all rebels went to bed,
I pressed the keys and found release in peddling pretend.
I swing swords from various degrees
and bring whores vicarious disease.
I sing chords with baritone ***ophony,
so get off of me.
I preach peace but ain't married to beliefs.



Posted on July 27, 2013

Somebody split eight, so I stepped to the fore.
And I'm the type to twist fate into a weapon of war.
When I'm not peddling gore, I'm usually stretching a whore.
Serpent's known for snaking so deep,
I leave uterine vestiges torn.