August 7, 2021

The Lion’s Gate 888. {Poem}



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I’m currently in
the city of angels
that is where I’m at.

The Lala Land with
golden trails,
and nobody is fat.

I used to sit and
wonder why
my film fell flat?
But now I understand
the angles,
and why the cat
has no damn hat.

You see, I’m here
to flee
the people

who won’t

get on their knee.

The small town,
the god-awful gown,
the way they move
like sneaky snails.

Oh my, the way their
courage pales.

8/8/8 Lion’s Gate.

The doors shift
and I get why
JayZ writes
about 444.

There’s a here and
there’s a there

and a sublime underscore;
the angels leave numbers
for us to explore.

It’s all violet within;

implored darling doors
inside the coral chasm
of our thumping heart.
inside the chords we cut,
or we willingly impart.

Nobody can control
our sacred shining mines,
nobody can uncover
chasm-less confines.

I often wonder
which way to go:
avoid unnecessary drama,
tell my story, call my mama,
or become the doormat

of my soul?

Karma paid, third eye explodes
but no, no, no my friend
it’s not as simple
as all this.

Wherever there is succulent sunshine
there is paid shade.

Remember that.

We’re here for more
then just a defining moment
we’re here until the
lady anxious or flowering pot,

in all her shapes and sizes

Oscar-worthy, sings her glory.


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