Thursday, October 25, 2012

Mirror Mirror OFF The Wall ~ Mitishamba ~ Birth of September

"It's seven days 'til November when I'll be gone for ever so as I unearth and shine a light on September the time of my birth, I give credence to my resting place, samaki. Walking on wine has me pressing for a change of minds that seem to be full of curiosity yet ignorant in learning what they themselves want to teach, society. What of I walking into your home uninvited and faking a desire to want to learn your life only to back stab you with forceful mental games that leave you disassociated with your present self, I'm scrapping. Scratching the glass wall that houses a woman that will visit a homestead with a mind as empty as what its father's sandy walk is, yet its evil steps lead unwanted schemes into what's already known, what a child is. If what you birth into this world faces your emptiness, then the idea that another's lifestyle that your kind openly belittles is also virtuous enough to warrant your safari to see then maybe you need to turn your womb into a frozen place since that's what you claim as science. My mother's golden and scions, filled with sages and scribes of mellow moods some talk of Zion but yours are of empty fools that lack an immediate look of what is love, so hate forms your sires. I have seen clearly what you use to communicate with your kind as I know the latest being True Blood as your only present tower that Mitishamba has downed with all my ciphers and this scribe is that fourth stake into your attempts to preach pious. The first three went to the hands feet and blunting fangs of vampires that hide in walking screens and since daylight isn't your friend, I've rung bells to your bat caves so you can stop hiding in broad nightlight like you brought me Kaya. My resting place doesn't have to be displaced so everything that I've said is for you to find the peace you've given me once in a grave so that you can awake to my warriors who once again, won't buy ya?! Worthless souls without tires stamped with yellow clothes whenever in the presence of my fire and as heat nears my green, I'm pulling a Simon and he says he wants all the art you've stolen as your timers. And because your dead are unworthy of locks, my Bonfires them at the exact Temps and scold any of what you present as living until you leave my sight dead ever after since the seventh midget knows all the secrets to your hair as its my dopey conquerors that bests all your hunters without having to read what you want him buying thus your evil seeds will never be Mayan."

"Ishmael Mitishamba HekimaNimali ~ The Green Vine of no to Wall.E ast"

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

'Name Names, Ms. Castle....' ~ Mitishamba ~ Killuminati.

"If I’m another’s idea of myself, then my other idea is to stop being myself and ask for the other to pronounce my name. And I dare you denounce my mane with your jealous views that can’t stomach the idea of being unwanted since everyone you look down on craves my speech, as yours comes from sand. Such a Shem to have corralled all of your history under millions of years of impotence yet lack any individual stem. This writing being irrelevant as it’s in the language of uselessness with plastic representing what it actually wants said. Synthesized all beginnings since the whole and its endings all revolve around my shade. What existed before was a language of thought so my thinking is somewhat redundant since its Cinderella monarchs that always want to imitate where my Lion stays. Your painted scion isn't sage and the emptiness of what you present in life is a testament of why it’s not your book, so you wage death in exchange for my name. You can act and pretend, trap with false pretense, grab and leave bends, run and speed death, but nothing you do will make me move beyond my dirt’s limit of your skied ends. Reflecting waters fled dubbed the exit of strengths but I know it’s just your fear of my game that’s made for real hunters and not of men. By any means you've used me to make your ends and teach nothing of your lack of any boundary with happiness so it’s my soul you still crave. A lake always existed, yet you took its name thinking what’s downstream will swim to you instead. Water conforms to earth’s will miss grave as you continue to die for want of its men, but in my pillow’s talk the elephant wants back all you’ve caused stray. Name me any limited end and I’ll maim you with my unlimited space at any given time knowing full well my history doesn’t have to include you, to have said. So I'm including you in what I'm saying because all that I have acquired isn't for my gain but rather your false teachings of walking superior, but using my legs and as far as thought, you're the scarecrow on my paige."

“My name is Ishmael, but call me Green Unbred.”