"Deepened words that floods thoughts its just my weekend verb. Many Phelps the deep end world only to drown as there's no life guarding the fluid lines I impart." Mitishamba ~ Making way with words as breath follows.
june 24 '13
response to dangerousNEGRO's request for insight on OWN's...
"For my dark berry's seeds. Buried deep in the earth lies a dormant picture unseen that portray scenes in colors that can breathe. An aroma lacking scented schemes where a family's planning still revolves around one's skin. Determined the dermis represents dummies so findings are used for confining my love into name-sets, a continuous ancestral strip. Called Smith yet constructed nil, if the shoe fits without wearing it then someone is using your feet. I know the vice grips many into thinking running toward sheen forgetting that not all oil meets my dark one's canvas as ink". Mitishamba, the dark berry went East.
'the One drops'
"Class rules dictate advances through supposed chances posing as proven courses of outlining what is socially norm. Past brutes' diction reads of a haste to prose while silently suffering from an addiction of profiling one source. It simply shows career students who went about things crassly considering it pride but rather abused a jungle in books while calling it their home. Vast grooves turn pages so my love knew to strand statements in any cleavage involving masked views that reveal drafts made of planters lacking a farm. Plunder a land of its soil and leave tethered nomads as employees circling a tree's shadow in search of fountains of joy, yet squander storms. Restricted movement encounters coal which alone provides challenges in avoiding friction while utilizing rungs made of mud, ignorant of how brittle ceramic toils affirm wooden carvings a sturdier form. A tree defined by more than what is on the surface and when the rule classifies everything that surfaces, it misses the whole of life's mark; at its core, air reflects dirt's tone."
Ishmael, the written embryo
"The mind of a transformer that irons thoughts and leave creases of doubt as to what to do with the former. The latter being that my increase in action seems to have caught many by surprise on how to see me and with what formula. Calculating ways of speaking they seek ways and formats to deceive me but my paragraphs remain dormant as in, bold and justified, beforehand. Call me Mti, which in Kiswahili is a tree in the farm of a truth teller and these proper words about me are merely informal. Digging the surface for a forum that can handle the effects of my decorum and turn a deceptacon into an informant. Iron man on my collar, I zoom in and out of sentences that range from grave yard thoughts to euphoria..........................................."
Ishmael, the written embryo