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.