I think I figured it out.

I zigzag through the figurative route.

Don’t chase me.

Caught a riveting sound, so spacey.

How do we get around these old faces?

Got my feet on the ground with no laces.

Bound to blow stasis.

Pound the cold pavement down until I found a grave.

It was buried so deep under my old ways.

My pen bleeds out biowaste

—staining on the page. Got a rage to annihilate

and violate those iron gates.

Yeah, right.

Cause a riot is a voice of the unheard.

Some nerve, of these men in power who going unserved.

But what about when the hunted become hunters?

The youngsters who wrangle up the Once-lers.

Who talk second and punch first, the gun bursts.

And I ain’t saying I concur, just stepping in concrete shoes of the conquered.

Am I bonkers yet?

Or should I sit down and calm my jets?

Keep sticking to the dot com threats.

When I rhyme, I vent, I’m vexed.

Tell me what comes next.

Is it afterlife,

or a pocket full of bad advice,

or a rocket that is out of sight?

So hyped up when I grab the mic.

You need a pack of ice,

a bag of Vicodin.

Get a taste of the blood that I’m siphoning.

When I write bars, I ain’t always right within.

I can feel the grip tightening.

So how ripe is the fruit that your mind produce?

I’m a fruit of my labor, on mama dukes.

Ain’t no Jamba Juice.

Yeah, you better go alarm the troops.

When I get pressed you can bet I bomb the booth,

and that’s truth.