Book 1 Poem by Byron Cornell Ford II

traveling down a path with pieces of broken glass
so it seems someone has ran off with the message
my creative individuality is suicidal when collective
dont compare me rather tear leaks where my neck is
my mind open perspective had a few demons let in
laughs did speak when they fleed/seen whats in me
harsh judgements spark uck its who r you anyway! ?
i recreate myself day to day yer a molded piece of clay
a cat hair in stacks of hay, pointless imo
my words/my imaginative splurges attack the weak like dominions
hatred from those dont get its, all love from the prolifics
i have friends in high places low key no need specifix
dropp off the map tap into my own zone sad those mentalie trapt
seen her naked with the dekan backwards preaching leaving saks
same sacks we was crushing puffing while kenny g played on wax
shhh no need for claps let hands relax as mine react
in a world where none matter unless they chatter matter of facts
no body is ucking with that but every soul should dive in the depths
he wore his heart on his niggerlips it lingerd with his breath
an art few have come to accept, Love all or love just self
lonelyness never = wealth, dolla signs disguise themself
the root from which we all live evil some lust to forget
no spit......