Freestyle: Damned Verses – Published by Roberto Spike on 02/12/2017
I’d like to kick my dreams
throwing’em in the loo and then rise the glasses
and toast the end of my story,
and whatever it goes it’s still a victory.
I’ve been nourishing all my passions,
drawing with words; Emotions and feelings,
but I really wonder what this is all for,
if at the end I feel like a reserve.
By now I don’t even know why I keep writing
not even to the end, this shit if just it let me make a living!
it’s like rubbing my face in it,
I’m like a drunk man on a highway, crossing it.
Each line I write is a bad wound
I let my life going by
and then I throw behind any step I made
walking then with no help.
I saw young talents coming out
and then falling down like the moon at dawn.
By now music has become like an old whore
but, fuck the passion, we want money, no more.
I’m a street Artist with no future
with no microphone, no stage,
or nothing to venture. even the light of my Star
is now off, but then who the fuck is feeding my thoughs?
That every single My Sick Thought comes out of a crowd is discounted
will not the after effects of any drug I have adopted?
or maybe that Star has not turned off and hiding,
does she occasionally shine and my thoughts confuse?
But one thing I’m sure and very sure,
my damned write is a big grip for the ass,
because if this is the gift I was given by child,
what does hell I need if does not even know me my neighbor?
Yet I still find myself writing every verse
while I should be around drinking beer, until I get up,
and imprint over a sheet, a thousand coded words
and the concept sounds strange and makes it all the more difficult.
But now I conclude this text, with the classic bow,
as if I were the protagonist of this teatrine fool,
thanking my audience, as a devoted subject,
and then I vanish into the fog, leaving the unknown to you.