backtotop

Categories: poetry/ writing

Let’s paint a tryptich, but I don’t want it to be too cryptic.
I’m sitting here alone, my imagination has created a comfort zone.
This isn’t meant to be a rap, even though front to back it’ll rhyme just like that.
The flow is what’s missing, my syllables and sentence structure is twisting.

Just try and put a beat behind this, then spit out the words, you’ll see it might not fit.
I’m not here to proclaim a new day in the rap game.
I’m just playing another round in this illusory network created by my brain, based on thoughts passed down from plane to generation to name.
Perhaps a univeral consciousness area, developed over millennia, to adapt to this world but it went awry.

We took the tools in order to keep us sane and functioning, let it fly, applied it to self-perpetuated problems like the psyche.
We have all the answers, that’s where are questions are coming from.
If one day the questions, the questioner, ended, we’d be done.
I’m using the exact tool that is perpetuating all our pain. It’s all there is. Without it nothing remains, obviously.

None of my words are unique. Ideas rehashed from last week. There’s nothing left but to keep on barking like a dog.
Discuss things in a classroom, debate on and on. As long as I am solidified in this sphere, we’ll always be here.
You can’t escape it, even if you see. But if you see, then you won’t believe. So yeah, keep that not in, nor out, of mind.
Because mind is a myth. I’m just here visiting to relay and regurgitate, then exit so I can stay far away from this mist.