THE OPEN MIC CYPHER

[Fig]

Societies orphan, living through proprietieshorrid.
Aura so entwined with vice, fate is bound to be scorchin.
Strobe light motions in rythms matching your tight pulses;
How I inch my steps forward to cut your life sources.
Morphin grip from my own dick, to holdin the gun.
Been known to often start and shadow box in core of the sun.
Coroners come when I exit booth; mortars for lungs
Foreigner like when I hit the mic; rollin the tongue.
Noosing the cord. Morbid musical, starsyou and the Lord
Using the force, sorta like a sith abusive to whores.
Screw-up, of course. Unhinging doors, queing the torch
then smoking bowls of Demon’s finelygrinded beautiful horns.
Cuticle scorched passing the sun as I’m climbing to God,
Snort the clouds from under his feet, just to show him I’m raw.
Nothing mightier than the pen, except my shotty that’s sawed.
Part an author and a martyr; I’ll die for the clause.