I pulled the pen out and started from scratch.
Like I’m making a complicated recipe.
There’s no steps to the words that I scribe.
Taking it back old school like we are kids in the sandbox, sandlot.
It all started with a simple scene from a movie.
People see a quiet boy and would never think he could possess this type of lyrical artistry.
I hear the beat and melody and let the pen bleed.
Like I’m possessed by a demon the words come out.
A revelation of what I’ve truly crafted.
Not with a mic or battle, yet a poetic fashion.
Pull out your newspaper these words are old fashion.
New York times doesn’t even have the press yet.
I’m loud with laud as if I work at the daily bugle, call me Jonah Jameson.
Pull out a bottle of Jameson liquor.
These emotions are random and dont whisk.
Ye, thy key is played out.
I stumble up the steps as they fall to the ground.
Maybe that bottle of whiskey shouldn’t have been brought out.
Not sure where I’m at or how this actually played out.
Wait… yes… we were talking about Old Times.
Yet it’s too late, I’m an old man and completely forget, forgot.
Life has gone by and I’ve forgotten to enjoy it…