PaperHurricanesAndPlanes

Oh, snippety snap, I'm back with a brand new rap... Chiggity check this, sucka.

Writer Of Fire

A writer with words etched into his steadily beating heart.
The black ink, burns with toxicity, and melts into his veins.
He engraves “writer” with an exacto knife, across his blood-bubbling chest.
All around him, a scene painted, of naturally burning embers.
A twilight, the sun is burning, in it’s last flaming hour,
Until the darkness comes for it’s twelve hour shift.

He sees a tub with a piece of wood, lying across it.
He sits, in the porcelain tub, bathing in fire.
The flames turn alcoholic, they drunkenly move, and lick his chest.
His brain, chugging, ideas suddenly form, so he spits words, onto the piece of bark.
His wrists, they writhe in an excitement. He spits the words as fast as he can.

He slowly and carefully, blows on the spit, and so it dries, the dark wetness stains
The wood. He leans back, and smiles, though the fires leave, he’s got it all down.
The masterpiece, his lifetime’s work, all in a spurt of spit.
Transferred to books that live forever and a day.
His body repairs and reassembles, as he staggers from the scene, back to his bed.
Feel his written a cappella, on these rent sheets, his black blood.

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