Shits and Giggles

I'm not much of a rapper

but I do like to rhyme

and at times it rolls like water over curved glass,

with just enough bubble and sass to save my "white" ass.

Then I hit a mental block and want to stop the clock

because I have nothing to give for the shock and awe listeners seek.

Not the weak shit that often comes

from my mind to my fingers,

concepts I hope to write, so it lingers,

like the toxins from bubble bee stingers.

Bringers of old traditions know,

tobacco will draw the poison flow,

so it's only suiting I do my convoluting

rambles behind the smoke of a cigarette.

Without regret or shame I claim my nonexistent fame

as another proser,

a wanna-be word wizard

and rhythmic composer.

I'm not a poser, though some would disagree,

considering their perspective

of my degree

of making words dance prettily.

Pitifully I once sung a rap about my after-school detention,

though the verses weren't a high priority for retention.

Did I mention I ramble if I let myself go,

into this rhyme scheme theme

of a talking flow

searching for words I know I know

but can't think far enough ahead,

so I dread,

I cower inside absent a lick of pride

trying to ride the tide of a language wanting to be shared.

Funny thing though,

English wasn't a subject I much cared for in my youth.

The truth of math

carved my path

in the task of custom cabinetry.

That was my reality as familial labor,

my father's pride-- his favorite flavor.

He gave me my work ethic

but didn't do shit to help me commit

the rules of English grammatical law

to memory.

Would you believe me if I said

I was doing this while watching a movie?

Of course you would,

this is so horribly-whimsically corny.

|| another_proser ||