My Pen Speaks for Me 10/10

I don't write like you do
politically astute

peppered with
pandamonium
and paralyzed rhetoric.

My verses aren't slick
greasy like bicycle chains
oe heavy with the slide
that vaseline and bergamot
makes through nappy roots.

I speak fm an altogether
different place
disaster splattered
drippin with curiousity
draining your soul,
if you dig deep enough.

I'm not inspired
by the unburned embers
you store between
rhyming conveniences
and your wet dreams;
wherever my mind
wanders
is far more than
your sleep allows.

Come at me fresh,
crisper than snow
crinkling under a
child's smile
clad with nothing more
than cloudy glee.

Even if we stood back to back,
my sound dwindles
in the shadows
of your ego,
stretched against your
life's canvas,
like broken street lines.