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BIC I Spit

BIC

I am poetically under the influence.

Yes my ink gets me high. I guess I'm something like a stoner, elated off the finest of ball points and rollers.

This narcotic got me strung out and her name is bic.
My voice-box often spy's on my mind, so yes you can say that I'm lyrically blessed my lines is sick. This poetik'eppidemk spits hot s***.

Bic got me going insane, so my pen can picture these hallucinations. I snort stanzas and inhale rhythm.

I am poetically under the influence.

I'm trying to hit my peek of ecstasy, far beyond any falsetto nickels, dimes and pounds could get me.

I'm doped up, Overdosed on sonnets. I inject free verses so my veins pump nouns.

Quixotic dreams got me addicted. So hooked yes you can call me a poetry fiend.

It's so hard to stay clean I mean poetry always intervenes.

I've seen more ink needles then a heroine addict. I pop nouns. Call me a pill popping animal.

I am poetically under the influence.

Slam with drawl is something tragic. Secession similes start my cold sweats.
Absence from my proverbs causes me to twitch and jerk. I switch my styles but I never skip a beat.

My lips are mic tips. I am pure poetry; My back bone is the curled cord of a mic. My mind soothes and sinks when I hit my ink.

My mouth is prone to my addiction. I won't ever be able to prevent myself from taking a snort, sniff, or lick!

I can't live with out my bic.

Bic, I spit hot s***





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