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Dif.2.0

Mutations are code

By Andrew WallacePublished 3 years ago 2 min read
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Post Office Parking Lot

Dif 2.0

Different.

I been different since a kid.

Once I made my sisters Barbie dolls kiss.

Underwear Batman print.

Flint stone set em of fire dancing fits.

I used to dance to prince.

I used to dance to queen.

I use to dance to silence.

Big fan of legolas, I don’t miss, I don’t lion.

Witch wardrobe are you eyeing?

Sky walker that’s a funny way of flying.

So high bitch I never land.

Jam band Peter Pan.

Sand hands clamming up.

Damn fancy ran up.

Prance candy dance yum.

Ex pill.

Let’s fuck.

Anvil.

Big butt.

Chance fan but not hand in ring.

Slam dunk but it rung up.

Call me by the collar get it wrung up.

Some done hung up.

Telly wires tied up.

Throwing hand signs up.

Gang ties retired.

Guess why we quiet.

We don’t go in silence.

We want smoke no violence.

I don’t choke no Hymlic.

Hot as ain’t jamima,

Flip a trick i’m tryna,

Get some slick vagina,

Stick it in behind a,

Philapina Pisces,

Peanut butter spicy,

I’m a slice of lettuce.

Better yet forget it.

Explaination credits,

Prophetic to the ending.

Sentenced to a refreshment.

Get there and go again then,

I guess this must be heaven.

Transcending bad intentions.

Fantasy so eclectic.

Mixing hidden meaning in the deeper message.

Even motifs odd as three legged fables.

Wobble like weak hockey ankles.

Back when I was jockey I was called by disabled.

Now I call a buddy when I gotta move a table.

I gotta use this favor.

On God I lost my patience for waiting same old cable.

Can’t sit still besides the break just makes me hatful.

Everything I want beside the things that make me grateful.

This just ain’t for the tasteful.

This just ain’t for the faithful.

This just ain’t for the labels.

This ain’t just for the same old song and dance.

I’m the bomb that harmed a sonnets stance.

I missed a lot of stanzas making brave demands.

And when I get the bribe I hope I takes five hands.

I don’t take vivance.

By my ions got bat shit.

My cat might go catch it.

She eye’n that ratchet.

She bi for the passion.

She laugh like a kraken.

Yo witches what’s happening?

My visions been crafted.

My mine is a labyrinth.

My time don’t go tapping.

My wrist don’t show fashion.

My lisp is the past tense.

My list is a caption.

My shit don’t stink, I made all this when I’m crapping.

We don’t fuck with les without a doubt.

I do it for the love not the clout.

slam poetry
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About the Creator

Andrew Wallace

@andrewnotlogan for Instagram and Twitter.

I’m hoping to profit from my existential dread. Maybe if I write something ~you~ find worth while my life will somehow transcend my mortal body and I’ll live on forever... but probably not.

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