"The stone we crafted"

[Poeta Demonio]

"The stone we crafted"


I hold tight to a needle and material,
these pockets don't come so cheap
when your job in life is to find a job...
.
.
Underneath these torn threads
lay a different type of stitching,
made of flesh and ivory bone
structures; my gut feeling towards
my situation is i have no guts!
the path's i take seem to be
in a constant traffic jam, while
i watch the people across the road
dancing on their paths with no
obstructions; from hotel rooms
with garbage can scenery,
to apartments with steal bar
windows i travel through a
broken land, hand in hand with
a symphony of de-tuned
instruments, and paraplegic
drummers that beat my dreams
with stumps of imperfection.
each time i place the eggs of
birthed opportunity in one basket,
yet the basket returned to my cracked
finger tips empty as the day
it was woven from human skin,
and money hungry wolves.

I stood alone, in orchards without fruit
instead this place mothered poison
soil; the only thing that grows here is
redundant liquor bottles and men of
the same fate as myself... nothing.
work wears the description of rare,
yet the prison cells burst with life,
or should i say lifeless? either way
this is a sub land of hell and depression...
or so the psychiatrist they fired stated!
i took a holiday to visit my old friend
'Mr sorrow' but for some reason he
laughed when i told him of painful
stories of poverty and hope sold
by the bottle; i enquired as to why he
took a smile to his cracked lips.
He replied with "boy, pain is a mans
best friend, without pain there is no
appreciation for a simple moment
of laughter" i fell short of breath
and left on a song full of low notes.



I lied, as i lit up my last cigarette, and
drank from a silver flask that reflected
my existence... it was rusting by the
minute! my sign may as well read
"alcoholic smoker looking for a quick
fix of hope, but i will let you down
eventually, believe me"... i don't even
have an eye sight problem, that is
merely to make myself look more
intellectual, when my true intelligence
is shown by the fact there isn't any
glass attached to the frame, only
glazed eyes protruding from hollow
sockets; my fragile wallet brings
laughter to the rich mans life...
just to know that my love affair with
money problems does not bring
effect to him in any way, shape or
form. I've seen a million road sides,
all with the common road kill in
which i am ALWAYS the main
attraction. This tarmac has become
company as it too knows what it is like
to feel still, not moving except when
the years weather it away in a
withering experiment of aging.
hard labour faces that are stern
and serious are all i seem to see,
they look at me with empathy in
the knowing i earned the lines on
my forehead, and without saying
a word understand the troubled
expressions that cloth my boney
cheeks; This is a tale of bitter harvests,
and that same old road, that has
no ending until the day i see
those white wings of collection,
and forever rest in the stone i
carefully crafted for my final arrival...
Home.

[Märtyr]

This is the best from you in awhile IMO..Once HoF and stuff is introduced for this week and the october nomination thread is up.. this is going to be nominated. Your metaphors were crazy man you have a unique way of writing.
I want to collab with you somtime.

Piss ew doe

[Poeta Demonio]

Hey, appreciated man... i'm putting the HoF thread up in a min... thanks for reminded me lol..

And, any links you want me to hit up?

[Märtyr]

um sure hold on.. I'll edit it in right here

http://www.rapbattles.com/forum/show...on-348177.html

[Poeta Demonio]

^^^gave some feed, nice piece.

up.

[LedgenZ]

....

[LedgenZ]

....

[LedgenZ]

Dude, this was an incredible read. Just the sheer brilliance of your word choice made this piece damn near perfect. Every letter, word, sentence, and stanza played an important roll in the overall cohesion of this piece. It was just brilliantly written. It flowed of the tongue like raindrops. And the imagery was just mind boggling. The emotion was dry, not really heart-felt of retching, but it was still powerful! Its obvious you put a lot of time thinking, writing, and perfecting each and every inch of this poem -- and for that I commend you. I emphatically enjoyed the read!



Favorite Parts:

"The stone we crafted"


I hold tight to a needle and material,
these pockets don't come so cheap
when your job in life is to find a job...
.
.
Underneath these torn threads
lay a different type of stitching,
made of flesh and ivory bone
structures; my gut feeling towards
my situation is i have no guts!
the path's i take seem to be
in a constant traffic jam, while
i watch the people across the road
dancing on their paths with no
obstructions; from hotel rooms
with garbage can scenery,
to apartments with steal bar
windows i travel through a
broken land, hand in hand with
a symphony of de-tuned
instruments, and paraplegic
drummers that beat my dreams
with stumps of imperfection.
each time i place the eggs of
birthed opportunity in one basket,
yet the basket returned to my cracked
finger tips empty as the day
it was woven from human skin,
and money hungry wolves.

^Poeta, that portion was just perfectly executed. The imagery was insanely dope. And the content was just thought provoking and inspiring. My interpretation is this: That due to the systematically-robotic-machine controlled society we've created, man feels that his only purpose in life is to work ... work like a slave, forever and ever! Work, work, and break your spineless back to help expand this ever expanding, brutally cold, unforgiving, concrete hell, we call home. Who's ice flames are fueled by the gas fumes and oil leaks we produce on a daily basis. "Work, work", said the trigger to the finger as the bullets littered are brainless mind. Slave, slave, to the system, spending your entire smog infested day, tanning in the ultra blurred florescent lights of your office space.The clock strikes 5, you deposit your check at the Ferry Mans Bank, then come home to rest in your grave, fluffing your lead stuffed pillow ... that bleeds green goose blood on your nose and earlobes as you doze off into dreams and lifemares, only to wake up in Hades and bow to the crooket bluetooth smile of the walking dead! Truly dopeness my dude!!! Truly creepy dopeness!!!



Also:

I stood alone, in orchards without fruit
instead this place mothered poison
soil; the only thing that grows here is
redundant liquor bottles and men of
the same fate as myself... nothing.
work wears the description of rare,
yet the prison cells burst with life,
or should i say lifeless? either way
this is a sub land of hell and depression...
or so the psychiatrist they fired stated!
i took a holiday to visit my old friend
'Mr sorrow' but for some reason he
laughed when i told him of painful
stories of poverty and hope sold
by the bottle; i enquired as to why he
took a smile to his cracked lips.
He replied with "boy, pain is a mans
best friend, without pain there is no
appreciation for a simple moment
of laughter" i fell short of breath
and left on a song full of low notes.

^Once again your wording was extremely on point and your language/vernacular suited the mood perfectly! Absolutely perfect, absolutely beautiful, absolutely perfect! Just perfect! I love the way you described the waste land of homelessness, the liquor bottles being picked form the trees, and the minds of the intoxicated and hope deprived farmers that harvest the crops. Just illness man -- through and through.

Best Lines:

"the only thing that grows here is
redundant liquor bottles and men of
the same fate as myself... nothing.
work wears the description of rare,
yet the prison cells burst with life,
or should i say lifeless? either way"

and

"He replied with "boy, pain is a mans
best friend, without pain there is no
appreciation for a simple moment
of laughter"


^Both of those portions were extremely dope, and both really stood-out to me. I loved the sarcastic, hopeless, eccentric, tone it was written in! The content was deep too!



Again:

^Yo, the picture help to add some nice imagery to an already extraordinarily visual piece. I was alos dope because graphics written on the sign tied into the poem. It really brought about a sense of clarity to the overall meaning of the poem.



Yet again:

I lied, as i lit up my last cigarette, and
drank from a silver flask that reflected
my existence... it was rusting by the
minute! my sign may as well read
"alcoholic smoker looking for a quick
fix of hope, but i will let you down
eventually, believe me"... i don't even
have an eye sight problem, that is
merely to make myself look more
intellectual, when my true intelligence
is shown by the fact there isn't any
glass attached to the frame, only
glazed eyes protruding from hollow
sockets; my fragile wallet brings
laughter to the rich mans life...
just to know that my love affair with
money problems does not bring
effect to him in any way, shape or
form. I've seen a million road sides,
all with the common road kill in
which i am ALWAYS the main
attraction. This tarmac has become
company as it too knows what it is like
to feel still, not moving except when
the years weather it away in a
withering experiment of aging.
hard labour faces that are stern
and serious are all i seem to see,
they look at me with empathy in
the knowing i earned the lines on
my forehead, and without saying
a word understand the troubled
expressions that cloth my boney
cheeks; This is a tale of bitter harvests,
and that same old road, that has
no ending until the day i see
those white wings of collection,
and forever rest in the stone i
carefully crafted for my final arrival...
Home.

^WOW ... you really drew a vivid illustration of hopelessness wrapped in a old and worn blanket of an epithetic epiphany. Just wow! I won't even attempt to try to quote my favorite lines. Everything just fit together so precisely and seamlessly. like each line held the weight the one above and below it. It was all in complete unison ... 360 degrees of genius.



Anyway, this was an extraordinary read. Legendary maybe ... we'll see.



Stay up!



pZ

[Jon]

eh fuck.

ima be honest and say i dont think i'd vote this in for HoF right away. don't get me wrong, GREAT writing as always. it was different how you kind of had this as a short story in poetry structure. nice shit though, liked the detail and the vocabulary, shows your lack of ignorance. i like you poeta, your one hell of a writer. i guess im used to your other shit being like dope off the wall abstract and shit, but i wasn't thinking HoF for this, maybe thats just me. but muchlove, rtf on my new piece, 'poetry's face'

[Content]

Very descriptive and rather personal, any of
the tree sections would sound great in front
of people. You could write a very decent book
if you wanted full of short stories, even though
no story ever truly ends, another one begins.

Well done, continue writing

[Liret]

I have read two pieces on this site since joining minutes ago. And I have to say, this was at least 10x better then the last. But, that's theory.

I hold tight to a needle and material,
these pockets don't come so cheap
when your job in life is to find a job...
.
.
Underneath these torn threads
lay a different type of stitching,
made of flesh and ivory bone
structures; my gut feeling towards
my situation is i have no guts!
the path's i take seem to be
in a constant traffic jam, while
i watch the people across the road
dancing on their paths with no
obstructions; from hotel rooms
with garbage can scenery,
to apartments with steal bar
windows i travel through a
broken land, hand in hand with
a symphony of de-tuned
instruments, and paraplegic
drummers that beat my dreams
with stumps of imperfection.
each time i place the eggs of
birthed opportunity in one basket,
yet the basket returned to my cracked
finger tips empty as the day
it was woven from human skin,
and money hungry wolves.

I've read many, many and many other pieces on Rap Boardes. Some I've nominated for Hall of Fame, others Legends. But this opener out did each and every one of those "incredible" pieces in a sense that it was a "perfect" beggining.

I lied, as i lit up my last cigarette, and
drank from a silver flask that reflected
my existence... it was rusting by the
minute! my sign may as well read
"alcoholic smoker looking for a quick
fix of hope, but i will let you down
eventually, believe me"... i don't even
have an eye sight problem, that is
merely to make myself look more
intellectual, when my true intelligence
is shown by the fact there isn't any
glass attached to the frame, only
glazed eyes protruding from hollow
sockets; my fragile wallet brings
laughter to the rich mans life...
just to know that my love affair with
money problems does not bring
effect to him in any way, shape or
form. I've seen a million road sides,
all with the common road kill in
which i am ALWAYS the main
attraction. This tarmac has become
company as it too knows what it is like
to feel still, not moving except when
the years weather it away in a
withering experiment of aging.
hard labour faces that are stern
and serious are all i seem to see,
they look at me with empathy in
the knowing i earned the lines on
my forehead, and without saying
a word understand the troubled
expressions that cloth my boney
cheeks; This is a tale of bitter harvests,
and that same old road, that has
no ending until the day i see
those white wings of collection,
and forever rest in the stone i
carefully crafted for my final arrival...
Home.

And with that being the ending my friend, I can tell you that it was by far the greatest piece I've read on any board.

Your wording was unique, not basic and not OUT did at the same time. Tilted your flow towards a straight, bumpless path. And kept a very STRONG emotional storyline or two. Imagery was great, you didn't paint me any normal artistic master piece but you filmed me a five star motion picture. What I can see is this being my favorite poem, ever read. And I look forward to reading alot more from you in the future. Keep at it. Now, please do return the favor as hoped upon.

"The Battle"

would like a poets attention. Thanks for the read.