freestyle

crashing as i type
on this keyboard
because my brain’s
in free-fall as i try
to keep going but
i can’t begin to even
rhyme like i want to,
tried to switch it up
and change the flow
but i’m so broken and
my brain can’t make
the good shit happen.

guess it doesn’t matter
what the fuck i’m on
or how i’m feeling now
because the world won’t
fucking care until i die.
let me grab you a box
of kleenex so you can
properly enjoy these
words you didn’t care
to read when i was here.
“he really wasn’t okay,
he seemed so cool! damn!”


let’s not forget about
the execs that’ll be
blinded by the dollar,
bombard my computer
looking for the shit that
i never put out so they
could make the money
i’m not making off of
the words that i write.
i write these to convey
the shit i go through,
but the guy in the suit
takes the soul right out.

gotta wonder how we’re
living when we can say
the best advice to give
to an artist trying to
put their work out
is to go off and die.
“congrats on giving it
your heart and soul,
we just hope that you
get to see it blow up
when you’re six feet
below the ground.”

start to wonder the
point of all this when
it feels more like i’m
talking to a wall than
a group of people that
want me to succeed.
“never give up” starts
to feel like a ruse when
it feels like the promo
gets more hype than
the poems i put out.
funny how that works.

six stanzas in, i’m
ahead of myself,
hard to slow down
when my brain is
going haywire now.
feeling like i wanna
leave this planet and
pull some hermit shit,
but the new joint has
to drop at some point.
probably self-destruct
trying to make it happen
and half the people i know
won’t give a shit about it.

but fuck it, let’s go.