The Epoch

These hurtful bitches got me crying,
Trapped in a labyrinth of their confusion and conniving,
Cul de sac here, cul de sac there- oh, am I better off dying?
A nigga might as well throw his hands up (hip-hop) and stop trying.
Why even write these fucking poems?
That idyllic shit is stone- in the dirt, or on the walls- of the cave of a hollowed heart, torn a part by a fleeting paramour

Yeah, yeah- I know, I sound bitter
What you don't know is that your man is a thirsty nigga,
Fucked Trina, Tay and that white bitch down the hall that recommended your babysitter-
And he's trying to fuck her too,
Can't say I necessarily disagree with the nigga, if I must speak the truth,
You'll play hazy vision goggles, and things will remain intact; and he'll fuck Ruth.

Back to my motherfucking feelings,
Inclined to remain a prisoner wandering a sorrowful prism.
The greatest of succubus', temptresses; their magic is to inveigle with delicate coy
To engross you in an insufferable joy,
Until that sensation of euphoria is the very thing, that leads you to the sword.
I'm gargling on my blood, spitting shit back up, gasping for oxygen
And I'm watching her steletos, and my eye's are sunken and fluttering for last life
And my body is twitching involuntarily, wanting to grasp to cling for last breath
How much water?
To purge my soul; azure pill soured
Prone to dropping the chicken in the pot, prior to it being floured.
Mind the southern colloquialism
Just registering my doubted optimism
Not to be confused with nihilism
Ain't the same as getting swallowed by
the leviathan,

Old man, just keep stearing the boat.

The epoch.

© BeauAllen