Distorted Prose - Dälek

Broke stride as last of men realized their deep deceit

This troubling advance of half-assed crews crowd these streets

Never mind of who I am, son, just listen when I speak

Broken paragraphs hold wrath of a hundred million deep

Bleak circumstance led masses to only want to dance

A bastard child of Reaganomics posed in a B-Boy stance

Make our leaders play minstrel, Left with none to lead our people

How the fuck am I gonna shake your hand, when we never been seen as equals?

Deemed evil by those housed in church steeples

False prophets read backwards from broken tablets to the feeble

I seen you!

Regurgitate their lies

I’ll bide my time with scrolls and ancient’s wine

Heady brew left mark on this hazy scribe

If stars align I suppose even the blind will see

How they stole our last voice, corrupted culture into industry

Few minutes remain

A tame soul wanders wild when it dreams

Mine are filled with ill visions of soot and dope fiends

These slit wrists won’t rest till I spill these last drops

Tarnished skin only sin when I awoke on sidewalk

Seen your movements through peripheral

Remain same individual

When a man’s viewed as criminal to act animal is logical

Audible tones honed to hold substance

Form sentence

Poor reluctant poet, speak prose

Refuse to beg repentance

Reluctant poet speak prose

Incite our peoples

We got raked through those coals

Once the truth was divulged

Conscience calls thoughts subliminal

Actions all cyclical

Deplorable descendants of men depressed clinical

Answers seem visible when visionless

Useless souls fold under pressure like hands pray to false Jesus

Inadequate adversaries advance awkwardly

Anger expressed outwardly

Causes ranks to break amongst these frail MC’s

Your fictional tales told with conviction

Concise concepts once written enter bloodstream

Since this inks been forbidden

Distorted poet, speak prose

Incite our peoples

We got raked over coals

But the truth’s still untold

Meaning lost to these zealots

Prefer bullets to ballots

Watch the rich sip from chalice

As these eyes fill with malice

Peasant hands remain callous

As our days retain darkness

I swallow razor blades to keep my vocal cords sharpened

Morbid mixture of mistrust and anger paints picture

Perception now blurred words slurred to form scripture

These sullen souls misinformed

Storm gates of stronghold

Strange fate that I chose

Morbid poet speak prose

Tattered voices arose

Red Blood written on scroll

Escapes throat an ill flow

For my violence atoned

Modest thoughts monotone

Infant MC’s play grown

Found them hung in hallways

From cords on microphones