My pen is a sword forged in the ice fields of the arctic, and I use it to slay the battle rapping polar bears. I crush diamonds with my teeth and spit brutal rhymes made of snowflakes during days of sun flares. I sleep on a bed of .9mm casings, and dream of dieing. My brass wings beat down the haters, and zombies, and posers. My legacy is infamy; knock me out and steal my words, spread them as if they were your own. I could care less, they’re all fucking lies. Plagued by sanity and the demands of immortality, I can barely keep everything glued together. I’ve broken the spine of this sad, tired book of nothing. I’ve broken every creative bone in my body, with my sledge hammer; because I’m sick of feeding you nonbelievers my efforts in blood. I nailed my self image to the wall to spit on, and throw knives at. I won’t be bothered this evening, by what you want to hear. You’ll never even read this, unless I die tonight;
in which case you can go fuck yourself! Your opinion means nothing to me, dance on my grave when I’m gone see if I give a shit.