The Scratchy Pen Writing is so scratchy, It flows to the needle-point pen. My spiritual mind meditates when writing on the lines of paper But my soul holds the pen. My pen is a mighty sword and left without sin So picture writing on paper, Where should I begin? Filling in the description, My pen and pad have had a collision This is my vision. Colorful words hit the page And it seems like a relay race When I release the rage. I’d rather be tagging in the alley way Or painting on canvas until my Meditation becomes medication Like leaky dye or ink spots that Suddenly end. Writing is still in the hands of the scratchy pen. -Marcus White
Untitled #2 Spiritual mind, meditative soul is rushing bold, so it’s told. Creativity flowing though the bic, mentally sick, vocally big as I roll lettering off the tongue. peeling how I’m feeling with the stroke of the brush. In the past, hearts I touched. Much experience with pure intensity as I open the jaw as I pay the price for the price of being nice. So far I experience everything at least twice. Finding peace as I take the road of the stepping stones. Sinking as I pick the destination after cracking the combination. Words with a slur. Vision blurred when I open the eye in the morning. Storming a physical, walking, talking, feeling, being. Leaving towards the direction of diversity many are worse than me, ignoring the worst, In my mind I am first. Now the secret has been told, glory worth move the gold. by Jules
The Strength in people Among us with the Power to say please Speak softly and murm urs What are they ridden of and bring them To pray. Thank you! Please pray!
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