F*ck That (2014)

I am not an icon, but
a contradiction to
naked eyes.

Never claimed to own a halo, or don my devils in disguise. Never promised to be humble, but I did not inherit pride. Wasn’t one to indulge grandeur, only keeping

my little
lantern aflame.

And it regards my bane as well as the glory. It’s both about the conquest and my origin story.

It’s gorgeous and gorefest,
verses and chorus,
torment synonomous
with
tantric.

A matter of the mundane
but greatly important.

Calm waters versus torrent,
a mania that
translates to
mainstay.

It is pain and salvation, impulse and patience,
an event as ageless as it has become dated.

As much my choice as it was fated,
constructed equally
spacious and still
constricted.

And should your interpretations of me waver, know I was never born to be anyone’s saviour, so there’s really no where to go but up.

It is both my addiction and methadone,
my loneliness and orchid given
by
an orphanage of children much
older than their
years.

It is the source of all
small courage but also a factory
of fear.

And come the day I
disappear as
awkwardly as
I spearheaded into this life;

screaming and punching,
falling apart but
loving every piece that
broke on linoleum
more,

cursing blessings
under
cursive duress, but
pensive as pens I
use to impress
upon the ages,

I was never a victim of my story but
undisputed champion
of its
lore.

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