SCISmatters

trap. · 02-03-2013, 05:15 PM

Name: SCISmatters
Reps:

Title: "Paint the gown red"

Fresh concrete, a stick molded the pavement with ease
used to hang in the breeze and carve my name in the trees
where Adam's apple dangled for Eve, that was back in the day
when I could find a pin in the stack by extracting the hay
molding verses like Jesus with an Exacto and clay
me and pens formed the truest divine two of a kind
been up Russell Crowe's nose pickin' his Beautiful Mind
losin' the prime factor can't get the root of a line
could point a finger, but it's moot if it's mine
knew the design when the ink was rationed in endlessness
a sleepin' dragon awoke in a bastion of sentences
here to feast on a leper world who's fashion is decadence
Cash is a treasure missed when ya mic checks bounce
matchin' the templates that the hands of fate etched out
Slave to the rhythm, air stretched out over a crooning lung
to the soothing hum of the music's drum
made a pinky swear to check the index for the rules of thumb
crumbled food for thought makes for some useful crumbs
illusion one: check the rope and how the eunuchs..hung

-----------------------------------

Title: L is Ressurection.
blink of the eye, a dip into the ink of the mind,
writes the thought on ya canvas to think ya demise
the suns twinkling rise, rays wrinkle the skies
while aurora's aura soars, in hindsight let's drink to the blind
raise ya glass..jaw..stirred drink w/ the last straw
now we're perfect blurs, slurrin' words w/ gas drawls
loomin' fumes, who is who in this monochrome rubix cube?
my voice drops like the ball on monotone eunuchs do...
i'm insightful, in a mirage i search the illusions truth
tho the more i see spirits, the more i'm losin' proof
glued to you like the horses hide, still the mane event
i'm pavin' the road to perfection w/ gray matter, but it ain't cement
nevermind...the clever kind who can take a breath of mine
and exhale a second and minute hand, sewin' a thread of time
stitch a better trail than Magellan whenever I set a sail
down to the cuticles I lay thoughts on a bed of nails
stigmatism, i live the rhythm and it bleeds thru my skin
dot my eyes with the breeze, cross t's in the wind
and that's the final draft, 'til the second season begins

Title: "Blunt Edge"

Perfection is that section missed in nevermore
we think inside the box and glimpse in metaphors
seekin' similies, there peeks Infinity wonderin' who is who
I put two and two together and rubbed the color off my rubix cube
parallel to a eunuch crew hung in a nudist feud
the tide shifts whenever my tongues in a moonish mood
see; my illusions loom every one turn; bottled in the suns urn
even a plate of spaghetti's an orgy to some worms
follow the paradigm thru cataclysm where even doves cry
even salty emcees can just squeeze, and slugs fly
love lies in the cracks of the concrete and slips passed
then spills like eucharist from a tipped glass touchin' my lips..last
sip fast and still manage to keep my mind able
so on point, I'll snatch the Pi right off ya times table
last supper; feast or famine, creep our hands in grace
I'm divine in touch so I've got lines to cut; you just stand in place
A dance with fate; here's my chance to take the grandest plate.....

1 or the other.
Fuck life if it aint death.
Fuck right if it aint left.
Fuck writin', it ain't stress relief.
Fuck a mic if it ain't checked by me.
Tryna pass the time but half the time it passes me by.
Cus time flies.
Especially when all ya doin' is trying to kill it.
No use in milking the system if you ain't dyin' to spill it.
Give a brotha an inch then off he'll go,
tied to tracks like maidens in a Vaudeville show.
Die slow. Mind tricks. Mental hijinks.
I can write a million verses in a Snuffleupagus eye wink.
Ceaser. Brutus. Jesus. Judas
Prick the thumb of the martyrs; see who bleeds the bluest.
None of you do.
I am not the one or the two.
I ain't run of the mill, but shit I'll run for few
You've kept it real for years but none of its true.
I done beat a dead horse for some of the glue.
I stuck to my guns and shot the breeze
I could give a fuck if my lungs relaxed and I forgot to breathe
I could give a fuck if my tongue was snatched and I couldn't rock a beat.
cut my right hand off, I'll still write with the left
Bring the verse to life, and still write it to death.

02-03-2013, 05:15 PM	#1
trap. Senior Citizen Join Date: Aug 1997 Posts: 3,870 Battle Record: 4-3 Rep Power: 0	SCISmatters Name: SCISmatters Reps: Title: "Paint the gown red" Fresh concrete, a stick molded the pavement with ease used to hang in the breeze and carve my name in the trees where Adam's apple dangled for Eve, that was back in the day when I could find a pin in the stack by extracting the hay molding verses like Jesus with an Exacto and clay me and pens formed the truest divine two of a kind been up Russell Crowe's nose pickin' his Beautiful Mind losin' the prime factor can't get the root of a line could point a finger, but it's moot if it's mine knew the design when the ink was rationed in endlessness a sleepin' dragon awoke in a bastion of sentences here to feast on a leper world who's fashion is decadence Cash is a treasure missed when ya mic checks bounce matchin' the templates that the hands of fate etched out Slave to the rhythm, air stretched out over a crooning lung to the soothing hum of the music's drum made a pinky swear to check the index for the rules of thumb crumbled food for thought makes for some useful crumbs illusion one: check the rope and how the eunuchs..hung ----------------------------------- Title: L is Ressurection. blink of the eye, a dip into the ink of the mind, writes the thought on ya canvas to think ya demise the suns twinkling rise, rays wrinkle the skies while aurora's aura soars, in hindsight let's drink to the blind raise ya glass..jaw..stirred drink w/ the last straw now we're perfect blurs, slurrin' words w/ gas drawls loomin' fumes, who is who in this monochrome rubix cube? my voice drops like the ball on monotone eunuchs do... i'm insightful, in a mirage i search the illusions truth tho the more i see spirits, the more i'm losin' proof glued to you like the horses hide, still the mane event i'm pavin' the road to perfection w/ gray matter, but it ain't cement nevermind...the clever kind who can take a breath of mine and exhale a second and minute hand, sewin' a thread of time stitch a better trail than Magellan whenever I set a sail down to the cuticles I lay thoughts on a bed of nails stigmatism, i live the rhythm and it bleeds thru my skin dot my eyes with the breeze, cross t's in the wind and that's the final draft, 'til the second season begins Title: "Blunt Edge" Perfection is that section missed in nevermore we think inside the box and glimpse in metaphors seekin' similies, there peeks Infinity wonderin' who is who I put two and two together and rubbed the color off my rubix cube parallel to a eunuch crew hung in a nudist feud the tide shifts whenever my tongues in a moonish mood see; my illusions loom every one turn; bottled in the suns urn even a plate of spaghetti's an orgy to some worms follow the paradigm thru cataclysm where even doves cry even salty emcees can just squeeze, and slugs fly love lies in the cracks of the concrete and slips passed then spills like eucharist from a tipped glass touchin' my lips..last sip fast and still manage to keep my mind able so on point, I'll snatch the Pi right off ya times table last supper; feast or famine, creep our hands in grace I'm divine in touch so I've got lines to cut; you just stand in place A dance with fate; here's my chance to take the grandest plate..... 1 or the other. Fuck life if it aint death. Fuck right if it aint left. Fuck writin', it ain't stress relief. Fuck a mic if it ain't checked by me. Tryna pass the time but half the time it passes me by. Cus time flies. Especially when all ya doin' is trying to kill it. No use in milking the system if you ain't dyin' to spill it. Give a brotha an inch then off he'll go, tied to tracks like maidens in a Vaudeville show. Die slow. Mind tricks. Mental hijinks. I can write a million verses in a Snuffleupagus eye wink. Ceaser. Brutus. Jesus. Judas Prick the thumb of the martyrs; see who bleeds the bluest. None of you do. I am not the one or the two. I ain't run of the mill, but shit I'll run for few You've kept it real for years but none of its true. I done beat a dead horse for some of the glue. I stuck to my guns and shot the breeze I could give a fuck if my lungs relaxed and I forgot to breathe I could give a fuck if my tongue was snatched and I couldn't rock a beat. cut my right hand off, I'll still write with the left Bring the verse to life, and still write it to death.