Bless up troops. In giving The Mighty Shouter a canvas for him to paint, he has delivered to us a portrait of his in inner thoughts reported through lyrics that he has composed. We’re calling these excerpts WORD IS. Onward to the chronicles.

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I don't give a fuck if I'm grammatically correct. My point is to be understood. My focus is not goal oriented but, soulfully heightened. My reward isn't what I show for my efforts. Rather speak to someone and pass on the feelings, and recollect my experience. Explain preventive measures not find common bond. Hesitant, it makes my stomach turn and restlessness stretches. From forked tongue to fingertips intertwined, commanding hand gestures to cupping the delicate. I've got soft hands for a vulgar attitude. It's humbling to know in silence all your questions are answered.

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Disoriented as my feet drag, momentum finds a way to keep you going. Like a haunting pain...it reminds you you're alive. Common sense whispers advice like that eerie piano key note that echoes. I knew the wind had a voice...I'm just caught up with the city sounds. But it's a part of my collection, no airtight jars with bugs. Just sounds to my segue with more to come. Where the buildings and lights are too shy to come forward from the dark, but bend for your visual aesthetics.

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Caught up in the moment, I realize how significant things are. Where it allows me the gift to interpret and speak about it. Describe what words can't do justice about. Where situations present itself. As new as fresh food, it humbles me and leaves a taste so overwhelming whether full or not...I can't help but want more.

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I'll find my rhythm, like my obsession of talking to a lady. It'll be there for me when chance decides to challenge me. Close those doors slowly while she walks away. I'm willing to interrupt a moment if it allows me. I'm smiling as I look at you. So, smile back...so I don't feel stupid. Closure finds itself standing next to me...smiling ear to ear.