Worked 8 hours, Cycled 12 miles home, Got blazed

The cost of fuel gets me hot to duel.
Not just a rhyme, it's a crime I over-rule.
BattleVan is out of commission.
It rattles this man on every mission.

Bad roads, bad drivers, sad choads, I'm a mad rider.
12 miles to work.
I delve into style to perk.

Takes my mind to laughter.
Makes the time go faster.
Doesn't make the hills any easier.

Wasn't this rake ill in the breeze earlier?
Doesn't he slay and teach the rude and bruisers?
Is that him on his lady's beach cruiser?

Long stance, heavy steel frame, weight distributed to the far ends.
Like twisting limbs when fingers find twisting Achilles nerves to fix during 69.
A good chance for a spill.

A bad stance for a low-riding bike on a hill.
A hard night. A hard ride. A sure sense of pride.
A man endures to provide.

Sundays are the worst for running plays.
No bus service. 12 flows to spray each way.
Not so bad on Highway 99 tonight.

Compared to Los Angeles, Everett, WA is a'ight.

None of my white and red runs in my kids veins.
So instead I've brung to them everything to my name.
They'll be around long after I'm in the ground.
So my testament is the test of my legacy and crown.

Everything I ever held I struggled to earn
Usually had to fight to maintain it

Straining eternal is accepted credit.
Perpetually I burn.
So wrong or right? Whatever.
I'll stain the sky and kill stars.

I've run my rambling free way thus far
But it's the family I chose that blows my boundaries
Whatever the situ, every day to raise my par

Come  along and sleight what I treasure?
Your brains and eyes will end up in a jar!

I'll raise my wit like a razor whip,
Then raise my glass to all those who flay fast,
Fillet facts or fill the day with track!
Never stop learning, friends.

Whenever earnings ends is turning to true sense.
Returning to wealth within.
I wasn't dealt any from kin.
(On inspection, sister is the exception.)

My parents taught pain and torment.
It still flares and won't remain dormant.
Sticks and stones may break bones, but words?
Nay! They never leave me alone.

So I went to roam. Ahead of the dense,
Looking for sense, aspiring for a dome
With the lightest gush. To atone for a Midas Touch.

Too serious. Too tight. Too much.
So my tomes were hushed in childhood zone.
Searched on my own. Took a risk.
Heresy wasn't dismissed.

I learned what Time had always known.
I've been rapping poems in convalescent homes.
Chatting with rotting glories to catch forgotten stories.

Catch a mean rouleau. Scat with a sheen, yo.
Stacks my reams just so. A fast and clean show.
Only half of that was true, DOH!

Then bust an ill flow
To distribute the life-message of all invested to exist
Like Il Postino!

Skip the American Kevin Costner version.
If you caught the swerving words,
Referring to mercenary minstrel word surgeons?

If you're listening this close you must be one of us
There's always a hissing before prose rushes to bust
What's hushed like War of the Roses yet still swept up

After the shit goes down people like me will still have a world to be serving.
Missing love and wisdom at home so I searched for sense amongst elders and those in retirement.

Never stopped searching for wisdom and experience, collecting stories.
Hidden fears of the dense? I whittled them away for clearing interference.

Challenged at every sentence by the envious.
But I was tortured at home for reaching this lore and zone.
So naturally, frenemies and haters extended motivation for sure.

I still speak from the hole.
From what's missing.
The hungry universe hole in my heart.
Run my visions, plunging into missions.
 
Zoom on my verse. It's more than crooning art.
Each magic spray is a cog in the blur
Like the practice ways of a blogger's play.
An epilogue to my every day.
I step through fog when I slay!