I've got bags under my eyes for an unknown reason. I've been getting all my nutrients from the meat I ain't been eating. I've been getting all my sleep between the sun's daytime seasons, sometimes less when the nighttime sounds keep me up for treason. And two spinning steel wheels illuminate my dreams like electrical fields reminding me that one day, powerless, I'll rely on my own wits and knowledge. Communicating that when these tables turn neglectant, when the beats slow down to the tempo of civilization being erected, when the snare is replaced by a power hungry stare from my audience member turned enemy in the land of milk and money. And my ability to survive lies in my willingness to travel, the beats internalized into the sounds of footsteps trekking. The bass line becomes my heartbeat- day the game flies south for winter quarters counter pointing the rhythm of my lungs as the dawning days grow shorter. And I'm left with nothing but a handful of weeds and a dozen or more undeveloped seeds with nowhere to plant save a soft spot next to the old oak tree. These snow-covered fields keep me hopeless to find fuel, the energy to keep this MC spittin' over long forgotten beats. From the days when a hip-hop show meant something on a Saturday, now a Saturday is just one in 365 ways to stay alive. And I'm struggling to breath, but to the best of my abilities. Stayin' one step ahead of the ill intentions of my adversaries, like the day I learned raw rabbits flesh tastes better then any drive thru delicacy Savoring the juices and turning my hunger pangs into dream land ecstasy And using my entire being to make myself stay alive is more fulfilling then my previous history of 9-5s. Now I’m cuttin’ to the chase AKA my desire for livin’ the game I play daily that’s given my soul new meaning. With the world on my side but also my immortal enemy, I'm inside the flow of the events that happen daily. From the sticks that go as the wind blow to the predator stalking his nighttime feast. I'm just another one in this jungle of savage beats. Pushing myself to make it and possibly find a mate to mate with to perpetuate this cycle of survival mixed with pleasure. Now to put to use the destinies of the things that live around me. Like Thoreau, this pond might just be the key to my survival. But the cabin sitting adjacent, fore destroyed by mankind’s fire leaving me nothing but cabin ashes to be used as planting fodder Now my only form of shelter leaves me dangling in a tree waiting for the rains to wash the ground and flood the snow from beneath my feet I'm sitting, shivering, watching eddies form in the mud below me, awaiting the storms end and the return to somewhat normalcy: My daily operation of maintaining my life functions; the functions of eating, sleeping, and dreaming to pass the days in idle bliss just to see what the next one brings me.