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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Melting pot hasn’t melted **** for years Just mixed vegetables and the unclean seers Same thing every corner Cold, cold, never warmer It’s the temperature. It’s too low. Let’s turn up the heat We are solo dolo sweetcheeks Let it unfold, take a couple sneak peeks Cover up the hole where the lies leak And start taping mouths shut, When the lies speak In a dog cage so my steps squeak Stay meek, but spit ten lines deep, Backtrack thoughts and the world beeps. It’s heating up, window cracked Put ducks on their feet so the room quacks Potato sacks around our backs And we try and run a marathon Respawn respawn respawn Some crazy lady screamed from the bus “ it’s hot, crack a window.” And some dude threw her out the window and said “It’s cold now, crackhead.” What is it about windows? Prophets on corners sipping cheap beer Same script, different day, Cold hearts never learned how to pray. It’s the temperature Too damn low, Let’s raise it again till the liars start to glow. The pastors mic went out last week And the choir hummed through their teeth Pastor said: “ gonna be honest here, thermostat broke Were gonna have to cancel mass.” Im a duck imitating a goose Can’t find a noose So I Find myself running in circles Tapping heads and jumping hurdles Throw stones at the throne then duck, Truth is: front of the bus is where souls got sucked Pressure turned into luck Dressed up pride like a 10 point buck. Melting pot ain’t melting. And if I’m the cook here are my ingredients One spoon of silence where the truth sits still, A fistful of pain that refused to kneel, A whole damn onion No doubt. No tricks. Don’t need that flavor in this pot I mix. A splash of rage from the youth ignored, I don’t cook this slow , I slam the ladle, Flip the table, melt the fables. This ain’t soup, this a reckoning, I can hear the devil sing. This one came out a little salty Let’s try again. If I’m the cook — here are my ingredients: A cracked jawbone from a crackhead I tamed A whisper from God that still burns untamed, Two middle fingers dipped in grace, And a vessel with nothing behind the face. Couple grams of truth they forgot to weigh, A shot of love they locked away. One gospel torn at the spine And then it says, don’t read between the lines. Pot is empty Nothing is melting, my life dictates in fines Maybe I’ll start to Read between the lines We stir trauma like it’s seasoning, Add a little shame, now it’s reasoning. The pot won’t boil cus the stove is fake, Gas got cut off when we chose to wake. A nation of chefs with golden fates. But it’s all microwaved faith and paper plates Where the ink runs dry and priest goes mute I roll my eyes all the way around and dispute. I take sounds and I write in my book Inside darkness is where I cook. Doubt sautéed in fear Same **** we serve every year The oven is on and the bread won’t rise You have no ingredients… What are you tryin to make, hope pies? In a pot? Idiots
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