TheLegendsLeague

I’m trying to make it better for these little boys and girls
I’m not just another individual, my spirit is a part of this
That’s why I get spiritual, but I get my hymns from Him
So it’s not me, it’s He that’s lyrical
I’m not a miracle, I’m a heaven-sent instrument
My rhythmatic regimen navigates melodic notes for your soul and your mental
That’s why I’m instrumental

Vibrations is what I’m into

Yeah, I need my loot by rent day
But that is not what gives me the heart of Kunte Kinte
I’m trying to give us “us free” like Cinque
I can’t stop, that’s why I’m hot
Determination, dedication, motivation
I’m talking to you, my many inspirations

When I say I can’t, let you or self down
If I were of the highest cliff, on the highest riff
And you slipped off the side and clinched on to your life in my grip
I would never, ever let you down

And when these words are found
Let it been known that God’s penmanship has been signed with a language called love
That’s why my breath is felt by the deaf
And why my words are heard and confined to the ears of the blind

I, too, dream in color and in rhyme

A man once told me about a swarm of flies that had spread onto his kitchen counter top in the late 60’s. He spoke on how this was not your ordinary swarm of 5 or 6. It was blankets and sheets of them; smothering one another as he walked into his kitchen one summer with his window wide open and the drapes flowing in.

Disgusted by them, he swiped the surface with the back of his forearm, swatting them towards the wall and floor, hoping they would fly back out of the still opened window and find themselves in the garden out back. After a few attempts they very quickly re-gathered, covering the entire counter surface, eating at his food, and “staining” his sight.

He tried to hose them with sprays and watering cans, gather them in scoops and toss them to the trash, but again they managed to escape and blacken his marble counter in swarms.

One morning he coated the insides of 6 paper towel rolls with wet sugar. He soaked the outsides with sweetened tea and left them to dry. He placed the rolls on his counter top and watched as all the flies occupied the innards of the towers and piled upwards and upwards into them, never swarming about so long as enough sugar stayed inside those tubes. They tackled one another, and toppled over themselves for their food, not realizing how much he had been cooking on the stove nearby; pots and pots far too flowing to be used to feed a single grown man.

Soon after, he moved the rolls outside, and then to the curb, and then waited until they no longer could eat the hardened sugar and did all that they could to just scrape the surfaces.

They eventually became a threat he knew very well how to contain, but how foolish he is to still throw out his scraps.