Tired of me

I plant the beanstalk from the rants that I talk that stay with you like an STD, at first a curse as it lays nesting, as time goes by you realize it was a blessing, taking your outlook and spinning it, forcing new views to come through to you while I’m spittin it.

My words are ear worms that dig in like sperm, that accumulate and impregnate, my zygote expands and grows hands that command and shape your brains intake of the words that I make

I spit lava on the mike, erupting explosions of passion pulsating penetrating the people like pain, putting wrinkles on brain.

I wreck this shit like I eject my shit when I eat too much chili and get on a moon bounce.


I...

I…

I’m fuckin tired of talkin about me

We plow down coral reefs and turn them into a parking lot where only jellyfish can survive, we flood the Amazon with petroleum waste, we turn our own West Virginian mountains into piles of exploded coal and toxic streams.

We pump billons of dollars into governments that stone women to death for being raped, that enslave men extorted to believe they can feed their kids if they hop on the boat, and while we train, arm and fund armies that commit crimes against humanity.

Children die every minute because they can’t get a clean glass of water, while we use 20 clean glasses of water to take a shit.

I’m fuckin tired of talking about me. This reflection is a deflection from how bad shit has come to be. I’ve been so obsessed with caressing my own self esteem that… I’m all I can see.

I know I’m not alone.

The maintainability of my passion will be free from enslavement for sure when I realize that only sustainability, compassion and engagement can cure.

I’m fuckin tired of talking about me. And I know I’m not alone.

If we don’t all put down the fucking mirror and open our eyes to see the world so we can at least be tempted to do something about it, none of this shit’s gonna ever change.