Murdering These Authors

I aim for the jugular every time I write,

I recite my blueprint and watch my words take flight.

I steer into the pool of adversity; nobody is hurting me,

I have a broad scope of unlimited diversity.

Who cares about your literary awards, they’re only accolades,

I only know how to produce facts on the page.

God hasn’t forgotten, you’ve just transgressed beyond all bounds,

I don’t bark like a hound or make sounds, I eat you up so you won’t come around.

Days off don’t exist to me, I grind until I’m exhausted,

I work out hard to get rid of my fatigue; lack of motivation is toxic.

I have bad habits that I’m working on to desecrate,

But my good habits outweight the bad, so I levitate.

Writing is like a mansion by the lake with my vision,

You won’t block my blessings that’s goaltending.

Sunday’s feel like the day of redemption,

I’m so close to the Lord he gives me a time extension.

I’ve been sticking to the simple stanzas to gather more fans;

What I command is a literary demand with the grace of my hands.

The money is rolling in like a slot machine,

I’m going in for the kill, but I always stay serene.

Cold hearted like the roughest snowstorm,

But I have limitless compassion; my heart keeps warm.

I look out for myself and care about others well-being,

Never buy into or believe what you’re seeing.

I watch my enemies and wish them all well,

They want me to fail miserably and burn in hell.

I make Satan powerless, expose his cowardice,

I’m an ageless classic–in control of a literary grind that’s hourless.

I walk amongst the righteous, so humble because I’m the nicest,

I breathe breath into those who are lifeless.

Consistent composure, I stay underground and never go over,

I’m a philosophical genius, whether I’m drunk, high, or sober.

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