Mixture Of Texture.

A Poem by Gilbert Saint

Its a back to back poem, two poets one of which I am, and the other that isn't mentioned, going head to head.

Me:

I don't write poems, i make magic,
with my pen as my wand, i flow power through these hands,
I know i can write, that's how i make things right,
In every corner tight, every little fright, I know I will, find something to write,
My feelings may be blight, but my mind has never been so light,
I know i can write, give my thoughts time to take flight.

Him:

What i write ain't tight, coz my future is bright,
I think without blight, and make that spark ignite,
Writing is my might, i know I'll win the fight.
As I heave this boulder, that lay on my shoulder,
Things getting colder, as i cross the border.
I ain't o toddler, for I'm now bolder,
I swagger with a rover and no one will pull me over.

Me:

Though i brush shoulder with the order,
They seem not to bother, for my words are taking over, from the streets to the toddlers.
I know I can write, my pen runs the papers,
As I make more paper, they take theirs' to the shredder,
If you mingle with a shredder, get yourself a mind bender,
I'm the number one contender, all you imitations surrender.

Him:

You all know it cuts like a knife, when i say get a life,
even if you strive, like bees in a hive,
All i do is dive, like a torpedo in a jiffy,
From the back to the front till things go blonde,
Coz i have a jungle on my wrist, a circus on my neck, a time bomb with a piss and a six pack on the deck.

Me:

Talk of a deck, and I'll make a wreck.
Force them to trek, i give them heck,
We spit fire like volcano, remain cool like Kilimanjaro,
Dig them out of the furrows, take them back to the burrows.
Talk of burrows, i knew Allan Burrows, he used to borrow,
I told him maybe tomorrow,
Tomorrow he won't follow, his mind is do hollow.
so i duck and tuck him in a trunk,
Never again to bring sorrow.