Secrets stashed in stanzas
celebrated for style, but unrecognized
bellow-worthy blows beaten into bars
In my terbel are messages that would make you tremble
backed by bass beats that you revel in
but never decoded
Oh, if only you decode it
my personal Hieroglyphical legacy
revealing uncomfortable truth and truths that if thrown barren of a tune might end me
Gift that allows delivery of all gifts
yet it doesn’t ensure a fair appraisal
or even recognition of what’s sittin’ right there in their faces.
my Book of the Dead speaks on zombies,
because though it looks dead to you, it is very much alive
and headed straight for your brain.
But, you missed it.
Distracted by a chance to sway, or tape your feet
appreciating the comfort of creativity without checking out the meat…
Some notes are minor,
some letters sharp.
Hidden in stanzas and rhymes,
still a bullet headed for your heart.