I learned something. My mind under my hat turned like Saturn when I discerned that words want me. Their grunting trigger, pull it, lead bullet turn said words into slow burns of life's sojourn cus terms hunt me. Pump me full of verbs, then dump me like an overturned humvee, leaving me hungry to stain the page or show the stage my pain caged in my insane brain, then arraigned from drain pens, quills and trained pencils as phrases God lent for my use. Invent ways to straighten out ears bent by abuse by hanging on tight words that are meant for my noose. Centered, but loose when my neck enters. I wryte, then it tightens, so in turn I will pen 'til I'm interred with my words. Work for my words like an intern who yearns to earn a sick Lexus. Learned to spin terms 'til my words are slurred and dyslexic. Spit sick text as, slick as hick Texas, that fit, not for kicks, or to get chicks sex, it's an itch I can't fix until my lips split. Cuz most spit old bits; they're bold, but cold as obits. They're poets whose CDs show that they're just flexin' canned speech. And with each sale, they rob dinero just like a Mexican thief. And my text, it can speak when my hand's printin', it frees me from my San Quentin and lets me in paradise, like three from ten on a pair o' dice. Without words, I feel like I'm pared and diced, but when I'm compared to those who prepare to wryte, I go against the grain like I split a pair of rice. I know the thoughts I wear entice people by my wordplay and though I want folks to buy my wordplay, I don't want them to worship like a rabbi my wordplay. I want to jab by my wordplay and live dyed when I'm ink stabbed and die by my wordplay, cus my words prey on me like a parish priest or a nightmarish beast and if I perish each could stand cross over me. My words think they're boss over me, like I'm their knave until my grave, their name engraved and embossed over me. And though the cross did save, I was sin's slave when I was lost, my owner be Jesus and He did bleed just to drop seeds that would breed us. A spiritual race, grown from His grace to seek His face and fill my reed up. So I'll still my quill, so you can read up on how I fill my grill and heart and feed on God's Word that instills His will and turned this black man into a Christian male. He gave purpose to my life and lightened my dark nights, just like that Batman played by Christian Bale. And though I know some Christians fail and fight like Bloods and Crips in jail, I wryte and flood my scripts with tales of how Christ's blood has ripped sin's veil. And when I find life leaves me blind, He shows me how to read and wryte in Braille.