I took eleventh grade English high. Soared beyond Bronx skies into my third eye. I see me. I live in powertry. Healing the things that were eating me. Like broken Spanish, culture vanished in white smoke. Kept it closed when my mouth stumbled and spoke. But on the page I let it go - I know the art and flow. Hit the low; Evocative emotions - My heart as big as the ocean. My head some pussing volcano island spewing lava from inside. The fire is impossible to hide and I've tried many times. Started again - because breathing in ashes makes your mouth cake, and head high; Mouthful of poisons and tales of the woke, the tears fall from my eyes watering new seeds.