I am Proyd

I speak through loose leaf sheets
Cheap quotes and words overwrote
Spoke solemnly soft to mask little horns.
I’m a willing industry puppet who never performs,
But these fallen angel tendencies are preventing me
From bending knees.
Would much prefer spoken word on my long ride down
A sound of sky burnt throat haunts my mind
From the time my wings went erode. And
A road rarely traveled by never finds a meaning
So in turn a pair of lies is only spring cleaning
Of all the chances that these adages try to proclaim.
The best goal in life is trying to seek a better name.

(If you have feedback please tell me, I want to grow as an artist and feedback is helpful)

Uprise Cypher Three

Sometimes I refer to myself as Baphomet.
Baffling kids with perfect prose or adagies
King of the written, meaning what I’m spittin’
Flow so smooth you could call it golden liquid.
Or maybe mercury when these words are hurting me
Hieroglyphics written with spliff ends as if when
You understand my oratory, call if dark sorcery
Thrown with devil hand signs with gang minds
So find my sigil between alphanumerics and
Call me heretic when my breath ends.
It’s thunder I’m repressing, call it another blessing.
It’s addressing confessions and semi-depressions and
Lessons learned through switch to lessen the hearse
Played with perfect pitch and in reverse.
I blink a dream, think a seam, stitch in sleep when I
Feed my black sheep.
He was hidden so deep,
But only missing me.
Letters written in dreams
Feathers submitting wings
Quill and ink, humans bleed
Or so I’d like to think.

(link to youtube channel where I do more of this stuff. Here )

 

Late Anniversary

Yes, yes. I know I have not written anything in a long time.
It could be because of school, work, swimming and just developing a book- the bible for my cult, so I doubt I will share it until I am cool with it. However, I have been thinking about poetry/ hip-hop quite a bit, but not enough to have written anything that I would be proud of sharing.
I digress, I got a notification a few days ago saying that I have had this blog post for a year now. So *blows party noise maker* this is a semi-momentous occasion.
I think I might record a reading of a poem of mine- probably going to be the one that has the line, “Here is my handle, here is my spout.”- the name of it is lost in my memories.

You know, what. I think I might change up the theme and then actually share some of my thoughts with you guys.

Say something in response if you want, tell me the things you like and do not like- do not be scared of criticizing me, I understand that not everyone would like the things I talk about and not everyone likes everything I do with my writing, so voice your opinion.

(thinking about sending shout outs to people every now and again, might start doing that as well)

The wounded healer

Pieced the flesh of a man with needles.
Inflicted through spite, shows his evils.
Enter the Omega; watching him itching his crash marks.
Omega to the Air, “I can see the thrashed hearts,
Everything with broken connections that led to where he starts.”

Spoken soft, the pierced recites his remembered through art.
He was his own wright, coincidentally fixing others at the same time.
Preparing the pierced’s final rite, ended his life with a single chime.

Stage now a place of grey.
No judge nor sign beneath a gateway.
Characters of smoke and clay greet the newly found dead.
And he gives unto them like a sacred fountain.
Thank the thirteenth tarot, grim reaper.
Protected the misled wounded healer.

Cloud Grass

Slipped a skyflower in my DNA.
Yesterday, to be exact when I earned my sobriquet,
“A jack of all trades in a box”.
Occurred when I slipped on gray stoned tops.
With a high cyclops beneath my raining cyclone.
He claimed knowledge of things I didn’t know.

That’s besides the point.
I paint in hues that don’t disappoint.
Dissipate in eyes that dilate dimly.
Owls with vicious words denigrate grimly.
Auspicious veins of beautiful scintillation.
The blood loss was my remuneration.
I guess this meditation of mine is simple rhyme.
Best I can hope is that I becomes another’s enzymes.

.     .     .
Inspired by this painting. Really interesting to look at and the poetry is not bad either.

Equally annoying

Call me old fashioned, but I like to know what I hate.
And when dark passions culminate I begin to castrate.
Rape the youth of the systems of the ashen
Old bones are known for gold and satin.
So I rob them of their valuables,
The ethereal stuff, nothing malleable.
See, thoughts and beliefs are everything to me.
I can sell them to my twisted, thorned king.
He’ll hug me, hold me tight with a porcupines embrace.
Then whisper to me the folly of the human race.

See, we are blinded by the flashing lights and moving parts.
When mind and body are people we split like Descartes.
Claim that the opposing sides are different.
While not understanding the meaning of the space we live in.
You and I are about the same as the human lines
The ones we draw to mark a great divide.
Mine is as straight as yours is,
but our different lights still come from the same torches.
Well, maybe not anymore because of my smoldered flesh.
They are the results of a soldier’s carcass.
And the cults that sacrificed intelligence.
All because imagination takes precedence,
Nevermind, my aberration from silence is annoying.
You can find me in the bible’s pages marked “insubordination” and “destroying”.

Sipping

Don’t drink the tainted water.
Get too close and you’ll be a gonner.
Bane of kings coming in packaging.
Man, This stuff’s attacking me.

First breath in slow and then submerge yourself.
When you begin to drown, use your air to yell for help.
Treat the next face you see like a crown,
Accept your fate and hang your face.
What loser gets liquid laced?

H two O opening up throat.
Fifth circle turns with a waterfall.
Vision all black then you otter call.
Meditating on the predicament
Abating air with a christening.
Something about Arson Dawkin.
Setting fire to evolution,
Throwing up burning pollution.
Then, Carbon twice oxide in lungs solidify.
Brain and eyes light like dynamite.
Then you die without a fight.

Sadistic- Imp’s Rewrite

I’m an artist, I’m drawn to the sketchy type.
I’m heartless. Each kiss to flesh’s inscribe.
Tried to remove the branding of broken lips,
but was soon consumed by your death grips.

Rip ribs free from demons inside of me.
Set the two beast free and drown hopes in my seas.
The oceans evaporate and turn to acid rain.
The drug liquefies my wings to blood stains.
Icarus flight is the way the universe crucifies.
Interests burning like lives never eulogized.
Crafted disguise, practiced lies for disastrous rhymes.
Canvas leaks when passions bleed with darkest enzymes.
The building blocks of my bones and muscles,
Hitting them on other’s flesh produce mournful tones.

Slashed throats release schismed notes.
Along with stories tasting morose.
So I sing something similar to sadism.
Still. A kiss serves as escapism.

 

 

Rewrote this because I felt in the mood to do it. If there is something from me that you would like to be rewritten just tell me, and I will be more than happy for the challenge.

Gods On Drugs

I reminisce on ghost of new year’s last fortnight.
Sit close to an abyss without ultraviolet light.
No violence in riotous lives of silence.
Guidance from giants desiring an alliance against tyrants.
They rip open their iris in hopes of seeing past the mist.
Ropes shown to teach; they lean into a noose with a twist.
When the cyst on wrists and neck are split, no blood shows.
Instead ichor glows, then slows life that the universe composed.
They cry, the giants, and seas begin to flood.
Veins of the gods tainted with psychedelic mud.
Allergic reaction to passionate doses of dust.
Hypnosis in the eyes of titans as their lungs soak up crust.

“Focus on us,” last words of gods who go cold cuts.

Return of the Imp

My emotions amalgamate into a cacophony of words.
Lines blur when air agitates and rips birds to thirds.
Sky swells with blood and feathers.
I set fire to the letters in hopes someone can read the smoke.
My only hope is to be caught for arson.
So then prisoners could be my word’s extortion-
Is T.ough kids the best this world has?
They get thrown into cells for rehabilitation.
As if the adults with a fixation for assimilation could understand.
A child is a man when he is the only one that stands.

And then after the kid drops he is accused of not caring.
Hair tearing, tears streaming, steaming despairing soul.
Caught, sold as if others who claim to know have authority.
It’s the counterculture in the next generation’s majority.
Nations of vultures switch to doves with inferiority complex.
An apex in sight practicing apparent safe sex.
Inherent display of scare tactics saying it’s a sin before a holy annex.
Devils would have more fans if they too had a triplex.
Father, Son and Holy GOAT.
Altered gun with suicide note.
Held with a vice grip to keep the conquered bride.
Bribe God Father, “I tried.”
“Caught me in the first act and slid me slow.
Now I just hope I don’t sink beneath ground I know.”
Sounds like you’ve a devil on shoulder to tow.