3100
　 I find myself telling tales on pages, stories of my life, Named and numbered they are now a property of art, How can it be that my pain be shed through a systematic flow that consists of no rhyme, That my life be portrayed as poetry, just talent, That is soon to disappear into nowhere?? 　 Is this it? The true definition of my life?? Entertainment, They watch and listen to what am living, rejoicing at what my mouth spits, Glorify my name and say that I made it? Ask them, what did I made, Just because you hear h0pe in the words that I recite and watch others get encouraged by what I have lived did I make it?? My heart cocooned in a shell for it is afraid of breaking am I living?? Just because you hear God within my poems you cloud your judgment oppressing your understanding therefore turning yourself illiterate, Don't get me wrong I do n0t mean to call you stupid but this, 　 This right here is my life, spitting it out on microphones does not mean am infatuating about pain, Misery or woe so let me tell you what it is, Am tr0ubled by th0ughts that run in my mind so I viciously spit them out with grace. Brining back life to those with faint hearts, troubling they brains with seducing th0ughts, c0nstantly out do them self, hypnotizing them with journeys of life so that they get a better understanding of this cycle, But this, this is still my life, 　 Just because I do not keep my journeys a secrete does not mean you own me, Me letting you in on my deepest thoughts does not make us best friends, Gracefully standing in front of you and reciting with passion does not make it art, In this is not for your entertainment, it’s to relish thoughts of inferiority from your brain
