themadprophet

[themadprophet]

I want to fly away on a magic train, to be the precious freight transported far into the unknown. Launch me into space and find me, drifting silently. Without age, without time. Whilst I find, difficulty to contemplate what comes next, I feel as if I'm inside my own head filled with dread and pain.

Constant noise and a state of panic is my idling speed. Use the weed to calm the beast lest I be sandwiched between poverty and the obscenities that follow me. Far and wide, as if to say "this is your fate you cannot escape". I wish I knew what it was that plagues me. What damage have I taken with me into this life from the nexus of existence? Which denizens have I been?

What damage have I inflicted?

[themadprophet]

Obscene dreams teeming with beams of light. Supreme beings, whilst holding a pen to write, on the same thing Poe did every night. I hate being myself, sometimes it's right. I fight battles, my head freaks all the time. With myself, I couldn't change the tide. Hardened by war, in friendly soil, I reside. As a child, hurricanes want my soul. It's just the life, of the indispensable sin eater saint. Saint Sin eater, me live like a king in my Kingdom filled with thieves, and feign-ly freaks; friends who are really fiends, with wedding rings, massive student loans; and retirees.

All I had was dome, the gray matter. Top it off, no cap/no mad hatter. Fight with no blows exchanged, except those that made me feel deranged, against foes. Claiming I have no brain, can't remember, the last time I felt ok/ never got better. Many a night I would contemplate, Shakespeare style, to be or not to be. This is my fate .

[themadprophet]

Eau de Toilet 🚽

They're a paradox in a pair of Doc Martin's, they're mind is just a figment of a brain fartin'. They stop to cock a Glock and it's not jarring? Is it a matter of pigment or just hardness?/ Of the soul this merry-go/ round. Call me UFC the way I pound the ground, with my head. I feel like I'm too dead to harness. Just wipe my memories and call me Harkness, an Android with armaments and large cojones.

This is not a threat, I'm just coasting. Letting my words spread and see who's hurting. On the page I spray like skunks, effect all men. Rhyme like cyanide/ I smell of almonds. All I want is kind they throw hate these reprobates debate on who kill today. When will they learn the only way to save face is to pick their teeth up and walk away?

Don't try to play me, I can "X" your box like a microsoft baby. That means you're premature born, and bones are cartilage. This time machine flow reduce you to cartridges. This means you blow, harder than five hoes on one Nintendo just halt this, useless garbage. In a world of war, your craft is nonsense. I demand an inquest into the death of your quest because the ratio of those set here to protect is less than a fraction of the citizens that are dead.

No one tries no more they just pretend, I get so pissed. If it's the end, then I might as well go ham because these victims of Victor are vicious symptoms of a broken system, it's just dumb. There's factions of persons in a prison, of there own making. Like a 2d prism trapping aliens of Krypton, getting shit on. I might have bars, but ain't no freedom.

[themadprophet]

The Indifferent Man

I day dream, scenes play out for me a-la-Walter Mitty. Analysis of the self constrain and wane away in me.

If there were... things, that little boys were made from; it'd be these. I dream; oh do I dream.

These motion pictures in my head, worlds run wild with shadow and red. Hearts reviled in the style of Zen, comprised of kind and helpful men. The very best and worst at once. The kind of mind the devil wants, given to me by everyone, that I've been relenting from. I've been ostracized, compromised, and threatened against with guns and knives. I've been targeted by many a peer and made to be a fool for others to appear.

Intelligent and sublime, although crass and blind these people of sound mind. And body combined with their own short comings culminated to something... Something else they wouldn't find.

I day dream...... often of flying and floating in space. Mountains of sapphire, with snowy peaks. In another world, a far away place. Please take me there, the grass in orange hues like sunsets, subdued only by dew that shines bright like diamonds do. They alternate and range from that to maroon, to burgundy and back again. Skies of purple and violet views accented by clouds of faint light blue....

These landscapes run crimson. These people pollute and wish me dead. Even the planet in which I was bred, sent a hurricane to dispatch this hand. What they received was only me in a vile and vengeful state, I see. The future laid before me, a gift from trauma a sort of, trophy. A familiar that lingers in feathers of black. They wanted a funeral.... They got me instead. The death they craved may have gave way for someone else to take his place. A scoundrel of pain and anger and rage, if he was a book; do not turn this page. Close it now and walk away, lest you be broken as I have been with no token of amnesty. With no spoken word of glee, with no visible light in me. Without warning and so much fury: I am Quoth, The Raven. Welcome to my story.

[themadprophet]

Madd The Raven

They shun The Mad Prophet, The Raven with bad conscience. Armor plated slabs of lyrical gab, profits. Grab the damn coffins, bags of gas often feeling fast like food to pass out ass whoopings. Causing mass shootings, on courts like James Harden. Harden my skin like metapod started Poppin'. Bullet proof men, I see them in their gardens/ of Eden I'm fiendin to eat 'em for dinner like a big Mac party.

Hailing from parts where they stop your car and drag you out stomping. As long as I have the weed I smoke, and my minds freed. On it goes, as I write this prose plead/ later with me while I ladle your meat cleaved/ into soup composed of you I'm so hun-gry.

I've been betrayed like Davros, dodging graves the man boasts. These knaves, I can't wait to create a damn boom. 'Cause when they think that I've lost, that's when they die on/ track or paper with this written atom bomb. Words with a fat schlong, fucking the dam off beavers like they angry I can't cum. They suck too much it's a tragedy as such, because these hoes I can't trust. I'd rather drive drunk.

[themadprophet]

Maybe our loved ones don't die, maybe they just changed universes. Nikola Tesla said that what we interpret as paranormal is science we have yet to understand. Maybe, ghosts are just universes bleeding through. Worlds stacked on top of each other, like cups or bowls.

[themadprophet]

The Doctor

I'm screaming at the dark, at the volatile parts; at the empty chasm that sets me apart. From every person dumb and smart. I have no interest to view your Pinterest. I have no need for the adulation you receive, from posting photos of you in your lingerie. I send away, these thoughts and say that these folks are in a world of pain.

We're screaming at the dark, the vast and lonely parts. The quiet and painful art of smiling through scars. Whilst subterranean simpletons pretend to be infamous. Designing updates like CNN, seasonin' these posts with images of seamen in dress whites while their value of them is less than semen. When/

will it end ? While they bury us underneath the brick, mortar, and cement, the foundation of lies that's seamless. We are quick to condemn, but not to comprehend the plight of man, the fox and the hen. Perhaps we're all just floating stems, former flowers; now weakened.

Dried and blackened by the seasons, frozen in space by the cosmic breezes a dark, sick border of cretins. We see these things, we call them reason. In absence of kindness, it seems that hate is what binds us. In lieu integrity it seems that cowardice is more friendly. Or maybe.... I'm the one that's going crazy?

[themadprophet]

The Writers Block

Grand barricades, deprived and starved brains. A delicacy of knowledge hidden in place. I wade through waters of my mind for devine privilege and combine all efforts to produce one line, in which/

I can obtain immortal cancerous dreams and form them, into common place for the citizens inside of me. All this is to say, not so obviously that I can create multitudes of realms and perhaps posthumously, resurrect my spirit and let it marinade and see what is found by the time I turn this page.

Maybe if I'm really clever, and dig most deep I'll knock loose something with a bit of longevity. So that when the world has ended, and the ruins have disintegrated there'll be a record of the infamous Quoth, The Raven.

A being of short stature, with a gargantuan soul. Making mind fractures with this pen that I hold. It is my sword or sorts that I wield against these heels. Embracing the broken parts to excel at what I feel.

For to live and die on this block of which I've survived is a feat of which only gods are comprised. For it contains all manners of evil, a barren place built on upheaval. Apparent haste is needed if you search for heroes. I've been laid as waste by those same people.

Because the writer's block is a place that I can't see through.

[themadprophet]

[themadprophet]

[themadprophet]

Jazz

You’re a nothing, a talentless ruffian. A huffy versus a DeLorean, time circuits on. Here I go again. A satirical lyrical Emperor Nero/ roamin’. A ronin with a death wish slicing off components. Competitors can dip, I’m a caustic prick as they scream in confusion “what’s the cause of this?”

I’m a demigod bored of these human spores scattered across the globe; make me starved for gore. Insignificant speck, lack of respect smack the back of your head like a lad that depends on me, his dad with a pen. Even when I’m old and gray in depends, my shit is still tens of millions of times a head, like The White Death with ammo unlimited. No scope of mind can find my devine thoughts, clementine lost forevermore. I’m Kratos, you’re the son. Not even Loki, you’re Atreus; a straight goof with an IQ less than Ever Clear and Grey Goose.

Like a paraplegic on his hands and knees. Like Mary Magdalene trying to find a skeet. Like Walter White at the end of his death scene they can’t stand me, I’m just an obscene, sick individual. Too ill, for these tiny residuals. Let my talent spill with these monsterous modules, a fraction of myself can leap any hazardous obstacle.

[themadprophet]

Tomb of the Unknown Poet

I’m a momento man,A human crescendo. Pen with a soul; a writing utensil starting to smoke, please pass the Endo, breathe in the pain. Is this the end though? I keep screaming for peace, but pleas fall on deaf ears. They don’t see me, the only see the idea.

Some things never change, written off like tax breaks. A puzzle for a voice box, so I resolve to a blank page. The result is lightning, earthquakes, and fighting to all sentient pizzles that exclaim with word missiles: “he must be disabled, mentally ill; a scapegoat. We can use this lad and hand him all manner of insults and Ass beatings, like Shrek got into a scuffle.” My patience is fleeting, I’m trying hard not to succumb to.

Vengeance, I hate this, it’s wasted /potential when I use this talent for hatred. I see myself in many of you, why would I say then, that I hold any kind of detestation?

[themadprophet]

GAMER RAGE

Please give me a minute, let me stop and spit this with my glitch-less spirit. A human lich with a linchpin that keeps your head from spinnin’. Doing the impossible, where’s the beef you’re sendin’? It’s nonexistent.

I’m a living exponent, an exacerbated component of rage, facing me means there’s no means of defeat. I engage only when there’s a challenge to beat. Seething and reeling I can see, only those who likely wish death upon me. It’s the devil, obviously; but he’s obsolete I conquer worlds and words with the same animosity. I am the beast you definitely need, to avoid I am above the rim of the Unknown. Sitting upon a throne composed of those opposed. In other words I’d destroy everything just to troll. I think myself at times as an in between. A creature that’s is equally villainous and intrepid, venomous, uninfected. Speaking softly but still waters run deep. I have the fire and spirit of Jeremy, angry and obscene with a penchant for the unforeseen.

I got the hand of a god when it contains a pen. I create and destroy at my own whim. Not a master of clap back,but rather a back pack filled to the brim with thoughts volatile and stocked up with Vim.

They both bolster and annihilate within, your body I represent the effect of sin. Making you feel good, but actually a detriment. I will the words to bend like an ampersand or a snake with Parkinson’s on crack. I secretly wish a M.F. would, I am bereft of good with no concept that could. Encapsulate the amount I want to obliterate, it’s about the sum of the world times two. I will run at you with the fervor of a nerd who’s gone berserk and green cuz a fool careened off a high plain with their entire collection of games, all I need is an axe, anthrax, three bombs, Tampax to stop you bleeding while I commence again. Just piles and piles of explosives

A through Z, with an emphasis on Fs and Bs. And when you’ve witnessed the carnage that you received you may ask yourself “how did this happen to me?” It’s the Immaculate Quoth The Raven invadin' your safe havens losing his mind, ranting and ravin' transmutatin' before your very eyes into a fucking caveman….. bitch.