Submissions by scribes

Intoxicating flows lyk we flowing in taverns/as we bring blessings for masses in sessions/n tame dragons and serpents in split seconds/with madness in burdens/THE mic stalkers in street corner ciphers/rap explorers, informers and writers/ wit the focus of snipers/ur soldiers wont survive us/even ur local macgyvers/cos these vocals are virus/biters be left wit single tooth so we minus/weakness in the game/dividers, conquerors wit that aim/torturers brains/­unstable lyk weather vanes/terror reigns/at this tym and space/verses are outta space/4 when a tongue vibrates it elevates spirits/livin...

Hate is a thought that rages in my rhymebook pages
Hate is zues living souls in hades cages
God is love but he hates these,souls who know not what faith is
Hate is one of those fundamental stages for creating a racist
Hate is when you hate these
Spokenwords just because they portaits of what insane is
Hate is when they illigalize rizzla crafted spaceships
The only potent mystics to elevate these
Readings we've got on our mental guages
For without weed I wouldn't have been able to create these
Patterns of phrases, filling these pages
And no one...

bursting speakers with figures of speech
educating receivers like teachers we teach
wisdom ink mixtures on scriptures we preach
some food for thought that your mind craves to achieve
for a dosage of knowledge thats how a wave behaves when we speak
for seven days in a week
poetry been in our dreamscapes when we sleep

i am that tiger,lost in the woods of the jungle of oats
for my speech pitch have been vibrating in suicidal notes,
somebody pass me the rope,nope wait a minute;
may be your fist to my thoughts so you leave me in torment,
and as you have torn, mend my brain veins with stitches,
may be with this, painful thoughts i'll be able to multiply my riches;
for at this current state of mind,
you might tell a scope for i to reach for the stars,
but i would still be the magician who would fail his spelling test with the lowest marks,
for nowadays i no longer get high...

this are the free mind sketches
written by a poet before his life flashes
driven by the pain he feels from the sharp edges
striking his heart when he realizes that his flesh is
ashes to ashes,when death catches
his life in a blink of his eye lashes

now his pen spells ink and curses
pages as he writes his last verses
experiencing out of body art
if his pen runs out of ink,
he skethes with his own blood
for he just found himself,
in the next poet's heart
a true servant of art

now the seven skills
are revealed from the seven...