Creative writers are never given flowers while they still breathing poetry.
Biters wait patiently for the last breath to pay their respect and get paid with your work.
Claiming being sent by callings to keep the legend's work alive till infinity.
No doctor has the cue for this sick world.
But guess what we writers do care.
We keep writing spiritually we don't care.
Atleast i don't care, i know you'll be speaking my language with your theft.
Evidently i do share.
You are that invisible disciple i recruited to speak for me in my death.
It's the life of an artist who cares.
We don't seek recognition.
Recognition come to us that's why we endlessly spread.
We are angels with no wings heaven is closer to us we don't fly.
Paradise is home for holidays filled with dead writers.
An escapism from you hooligans.
Its a crime not a mime when you speak rhyme in my rhymes.
Thank God i'm still an infant in this poetry, i have a chance to fill up the grave you dug for me.
Your patience will have to patiently await my departure patiently.
I have enough time to unleash these constipated rhymes.
You think you got me.
I speak better in my rhymes like a machinegun tone spraying pee.
My skeleton is covered in mics louder i do speak rhythmic bones.
My skeleton is made out of cables transporting poetic stones.
My soul will be kept in your brain's museum.
There i said it.
Ye i meant it.