Another level
of encompassed perfection.
Crafted by way of a witch
which molds second mentality.
A razor blade romance leading to fatalities
revealing fraility of youth’s invincible destructivness.
Oversexualized kids spit about “fuck”
but what of the locking of heads between preparation
and opportunity called “luck?”
Material logic is structured stiff to the point of overexhaustion.
So many split ends break the kids, bathed in sick trends.
Wrestle and defend identity too authentic to deny.
Opposition? Stabbed in the eye.
Like a car crash,
there’s too much adrenilene in flight to generate concious thought.
When you go for the drive,
don’t look at it in the light of chore.
Enlightenment fuels the need.
Gibberish; extreme.
Up yours.
Tricked out until the curves bend;
Poetry
tweaked out of your mind.
Don’t hurt yourself.
Ink is a poisen.
Use head when you go tattoo it inside foreskin.
It all blead from my own fingertips.
On a perceptionist tip,
I analyze it like dyfunctional family tiffs between relative cunts and dicks,
relevent to the words and add-libs that are heavy enough
to stick to her metaphoric ribs.
*Oragasmic laugh*
Exhale
pure oxygen, derailed from correct track.
Life is like a car crash.
Honestly, I’m carefully addicted to Jane and blended whiplash.
Checkout the fresh scar from the slash in this spinally tapped, muscle-bound, hussle stressed, undressed, crowned back.
Word is born and aborted just the same.
That said, make a point to give verse a name
before you curse out the rules of this tagged up, twisted game and…
Misled into fame or a new age infamy?
Go Expand and extend out and up to wholly grasp the intangibles.
Red alert:
Street poets painting it up with a broad brush,
You aint seen nothing yet…
The brainchild of bucking circumstance matching against my fuckin’ firm stance:
Natural expansion (of imagination.)
Ripped by way of the weight of the world.

Mike O’Toole