“Lifelines”
Written by: Slangston Hughes
“So, I slit my wrist and I bleed on pages and from this wound in my face, I hemorrhage on stages. Who cares what my age is? A night with no mic and my body starts shaking. I get to itching when I need to script these visions…”
– Rhyme Cypha, “My Life Is On The Line”
I got to write, I have to write, well at least these lines where my life???
But living is more of an illusion, daily brain contusions producing
movements congruent to more lack of solutions
Enlightenment only leads to further confusion
so is it “mind freedom” or mind pollution
Writing becomes frightening and spiting is the equivalent of blood letting
Slangston Hughes is just a ghost whose spirit resides in the mind of a dead angel
Who lost her native tongue in the struggle
See I’ve been here before but I refuse to ever come back again
Trying to pass a test in the form of divine energy trapped inside flesh
Poetry is like medicine that simply sustains the sickness
When universal healthcare is non-existent
So itching for scripting visions is a position I’m no longer content with
I’d rather be the picture, live inside the lines
Every color and tint imbedded into my 4th strand
In chemicals cynical visuals expand
From the poetic graphiti writer with the mic in his hand like a spray can
In correspondence with one colorful conscience his mind moves
No longer Slangston Hughes I am now Slangston Hues
Awoken out of a nightmare to share my deepest thoughts
Seeking peace in ink secretions only leading to untold plots and blood clots
I now bleed freely, painting pages like ancient sages
making prophecies inside hidden Mayan rhyme arrangements
that channel spaceships on HAARP frequencies frequently
carve stanzas in corn fields and wield Christ energy
I spiritually recite infinitely when I write metaphysically
I be the modern day Enoch with a boom-box
Sporadic with static inside his thoughts and it won’t stop
So even if it kills me, even if it never heals me, I will write
I will write like chemists who found remnants to scientific predictions
Inside hieroglyphics and must translate the scripts to save their research
Before the formulas no longer exist
I’ll write like pen pals who send wild messages through cyber space
And cipher late with text-styles on keyboards to prove who’s the true internet key-lord
I write like train yard violators reshaping society’s matrix and making innovation
where imitation once lived, and no my life’s not on the line, it is the lines
combined with the divine the creator lives inside
Turn myself inside out and show the world reality
Split matter and shatter fallacies by actually re-creating me
Converting the I am to the eye in me UNI Universal Supreme
Spitting my own OM into existence through vivid rhyme schemes
Convened into knowledge of self
for it is not the art who creates the artist, but the artist who creates them self
