Ode to Stephen King (If It Bleeds)

I dreamt I spoke to the element of the dark                            
Brought my sharpen blades and my Holy Oil for any movement that larks                          
I heard a voice harken, so I had to see                              
Oh, you are the one who people talk about as being a Stephen King wanna be                  
Hum… I told the dark I will bite your broken ass you come barking up my tree                              
And you know this old man, once a Knight beheaded by my hands                              
Blocked, and quartered after the head chop                              
A sad existence when your words is not in high demand                              
Let me take You down my royal memory lane                              
I was your ghost writer, and you cannot even deny it, with your non finishing dramatic pains                              

Remember when I breathed my skills into your words on another site, made you repeatedly shine                
With your one vowel input until the poem literally become all mine                              
If I can recollect you blazed glory off my silence assisting you, using my knack                        
Took you to the heighted crown to achieve until you start growing your balls off my back                              
New playground, new site, from the old, I am still a sweet kitty cat                              
Then you have the audacity to be talking like you can write on your own                              
How many inboxes have we all read, ‘can you do something with this’ and make it sound like a poetic song            
One characteristic about me, I do not change                              
Even without your soulmate your pitiful words do remain the same                              
So do me a favor and tell the truth                              
You need a microscope to figure out what the hell you are talking about most times, and most minds are not sleuths        
                              
Is it my poetic name                              
Bringing, love, passion, lust, and yes, mental torment to you without shame                              
Placing your works on my personal website for a week giving your words some clout, still no fame                 
Tell the masses, how many poems I privately wrote for you                              
Yahooing me, begging to give you your just due                              
Because my private words were needed for you not to sound like a fool, like it was feening poetic food          
When you had no voice, and on the other site, lagging views                              
Then you want to act like you the real deal the thriller McCoy                              
Only grown boys play with plastic toys when a woman’s mental carnal words cannot give them joy                                                   
 
How many times have you begged me for my free styling, my rhymes                                
My poetic time, and then blending to make your words flow like smooth wine                              
Then turn around trying to put somebody down                              
You clown                              
I will corner your ass while making sound                                
I got your ancient pleads I still have to come up from air after I read                              
Let’s face it, you are no Stephen King                              
And if you get your licks, kicks, naughty tricks, then to me that is pure bliss                              
From reading my creed, mmm… it does make a man grunt while his body sing                              
Don’t you dare blame your lacking, when YOU need someone to give you influence, to write you some bling              
                                        
A beautiful craft that makes real sense, anyone can understand, and that do not suck                
So, at the end of the words, no one is scratching their head, wondering WTF                              
I am not the one who sold my soul to write as the Devil ‘s pawn                              
I bear the sacred gifts of Luna who incites compassion from midnight until the dust of dawn                              
If you cannot escape your virtual prison, then step away                              
Who will miss you and that is all I can say                              
Don’t like the heat, keeping walking on and just pass                              
I am chagrined my alarm clock woke me up, I wanted to tell this Stephen King imposter he can kiss my ass                              
                               
Fake ass poser…get a real job and quit sipping on Java!