Pace of Passion

Internal bells ringing because my bosom beats at a rapid pace

Leaving a trace,

Of an expressionism of passion,

In the fashion of pseudonyms, verbs, and prepositions;

The structure of a soul’s unmasking

A literary Viagra that keeps my ink stuck on stiff

It’s a gift, not a wish.

Like an Orca swimming amongst humans,

Not a pond loaded with fish.

My ink exudes calamity, but calamity is my calm.

Views from the news only proves to be lewd,

Then blank pages transcend, and the art is the emotion exiting my palm.

Seeing a future beyond these walls,

Escaping the demographics of Unit 3’s halls.

Seeing the cries coming from eyes,

That tells subtle lies to surmise,

The pain that comes with being left behind.

My many hours spent within soft time,

Leads to phonetic dances within my mind

Because these expressions are mine,

Until your ears come near to hear the explosion of a poetic landmine

The drug of choice?

The chronic ink rolled within the bluntness of my voice

Going toe-to-toe with the state,

Making way for historical debate.

Literary pugilism; my championship bout highlighting an inevitable fate,

Failure seems to be the fog through which we glimpse triumph.

The trademark of triumph is an essence of tranquility that traces the grooves of realness

So feel this:

Drastic cases in foreign places,

Relates well with my demographic like the holes in kicks awaiting the laces.

How in the world could I not write this?

Why on earth would I keep this to myself?

This pace of my passion is not a question to be asking.

Does he mean this?  Does he mean that?

Is he talking to just me, or maybe a select few?

This penmanship of struggle can’t be called work.

It’s simply what I was born to do.

Always 100,

MannofStat

Copyright © 2013 by Leroy Elwood Mann