I sucked tonight
Horrible on the mic
I don’t think I like my voice
Doesn’t sound right
Maybe it was the microphone
Maybe it was the band
Nah they were tight
I think it was just me
I don’t sound right
I’m sick of trying to make it happen
Theres no love in rhythm
If your not rapping’
And there no love in rhythm to pretentious poets
When emcees get up and get the crowd moving
A poet do it
And the crowd steady booing
Basically saying cat get on keep with the movement
Put down the mic
You don’t know what your doing
The worst is when you got something memorized
And you claim to be free styling and you forget the line
Man the crowd starts laughing at you
Cause memorizing when you claim to be free styling is like paint by numbers and staying in the lines
Man I don’t claim to know what I’m doing
But I’ll never memorize
And claim that it’s free style
So here I am in the parking lot
In the dark
Thinking where do I stand in this game
If Poetry is a spoon
And emceeing is a fork
Then I’m a spork.
And there is no love for sporks in poetry and prose your either a spoon
or a fork.
Doesn’t matter I still can’t afford the food to eat it with.
I’m on the poets diet.