(THE POETRY ASSASSIN)
THE SOUND...
He slings lyrical hails of poetic gunfire into the crowd.
Those hit fall to the ground... Slugs lodged in craniums rattle around and confound the unenlightened and confused among the black and brown...
The dark skinned and light skinned descendants of those stolen from the banks of where where this thing humanity began, a lump of clay caressed and formed human.
Brown eyes open as if for the first time suspended on the rhythm rhyme as it dribbles down optimus prime.
Sweet like honey on a queens lips as a poet sips of her succulent ooze that leaves him staggering like some one hundred and fifty proof booze, drunk on her fermentation and numbly intoxicated to the pain, the healing of a nation as she causes vibrations sonic.
The sound of a bullet whining ricochet, fragments spray shrapnel away as the crowd parts in disarray
A poetic warrior spraying lyrics AK on a Monday.
Mossberg with a pistol grip strong as his slugs hit home.
JERALD HAMZAHFARUQ MURPHY
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