Just a Rhyme

When I listen to Eminem I purr at his work,
it perks me up. 
I'm then lured to write some words 
and create a new verse, 
that's rife without purpose. 
No clichés are surplus, 
and I've no nerves on the surface.

It's just an urge that occurs 
wanting me to nurse to life a rhyme 
as my digits tingle and fidget for playtime,
ready to mingle, in the meantime my brain feels no limit.

Set out in a stride that flows like the tide under bridges, 
with a strive to blow minds and entangle sublime rhymes, 
that I interwine between the lines leading in time 
to a chorus that I hope to be glorious.

Set with the wind in my sails
and a drive that supplies the hammer and nails, 
that wield together a motorised thought weapon, 
with a complex that threatens, 
to propel me like witchcraft 
as I spell to fast
with the sails at full mast, 
catching wind that's pushing this raft 
and blasting through my mind as I draft 
both good and daft rhymes. 
Which seem easy and slide through peasy, 
thanks to the greasy ease of a motion that doesn't freeze, 
but travels at crazy speeds that please me. 

It's not the work of a degree, 
it just gives critics and plaudits a read 
that they can witness 
with it's dense intense thickness. 

I don't care if it's rubbish 
it's not written to be published. 
I just like how my left hand smudges the ink, 
as there's no time for it to dry as I rapidly think.

I just let it flow 
and I know 
like the tip of my nose
or the nails on my toes,
that it's simplistic 
and explicit,
no need to be drastic
and complicate it. 

I just like to glide like a cable car ride 
because I'm able that's why.

I just like wordplay and syllables 
that prevent the event of me feeling miserable. 
It's just a cure that's what it's written for, 
just a rhyme to read once and not once more.

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