Some call me a phenomenon.
But I’d rather be called a poet.
Not like those who use the affirmation of hand claps to make known that they are better than most.
Parasite of prophets who try to host their insecurities in me;
Killing their creativity, giving themselves chemical burns,
in return to leave none of their own mind behind,
because stealing mine seems uncomplicated, unproblematic.
Being the wonderful person that I am,
I have been trying to build up the emotion to be kind to your painfully fragile state of mind….
But I am tired of being your “dope words” dealer,
Promising me that you will lick my clit for another hit.
I am tired of you using my “trigger happy” terminology, to get a hold of faux 10’s.
I will stitch my lips, protect my spit, and lock away my stories, before I let you duplicate my ancestry.
Even now, you are watching at my lips to see what words you can savor,
trying to bleed the ink from my poetic dynasty.
Oh you know them thoroughly, but only in theory.
We are tired of you leeching and bitching about “how all the great poets are gone”.
No baby, they have just gone home, their just tired of you trying to breach their domes.
I love how you think that you have blessed me by calling me a beast,
but what you should be really calling me is … mommy.
Because clearly I birth you,
My name is stained with distain on your pages; and it also claim that bootlegging is your daddy.
Honestly I don’t remember when that bastard jumped in my bed and rapped me.
But souvenirs of my labor are screaming off your typed paper.
This is your final warning because the next time you take my lines,
I will put this nine to your spine then I will really show you who is “rhyme or die”.
WOW, guess I can have Chris be my ghost writer too…
but I have a little assignment for you….
Imma need you to go home,
Read like 5 different dictionaries and STOP BITTING ME!!!!!!
And as far as you falling on your knees, praising me,
and calling me Poetry’s phenomenon of the 22nd century.
You can call me a poet because clearly you’re not one.