Eminem...the greatest living poet looks back at his career.

If you sit and listened to the words I've been twisting, it can't take you a year to hear, that my jams mirror the tears I tried not to cry, the tears I've dried in my eyes, as you've lied, and denied, and told me that my story is better told by lives other than mine. What would you do, (ha!), what could you do, if you were put in my shoes, with this tortured past, still spinning my future's path using this fast math of lexical flash, while you trip trying to solve this mystery of me, but you don't see that you be drowning in your own envy, and pool of hypocrisy. Blinded by your own insecurity. "Oh, woe is me." (said sarcastically).

Then I put a pen to this pad, go at it again, as I add a verse of discourse that I spit so quick, in your head it hurts, and you resort to getting wheezy and dizzy just trying to keep wit me. I know you see it as being more easy to call me sleezy than understand the genius that be me. (fo sheezey!). But I win this war of rage that's been waged and I've fought with the cds that your children (our future!) have bought.

That's why I keep Shake-spearin you with these rhymes,
While you keep wasting your time, saying it’s a crime,
Accuse me of searing these' kids minds,
But I don't do it for the biz, can't help that I'm a wiz.
-erd.
With words.

You don't call me a Poe. You don't know me at all. My words are my walls, they prop me from my falls. Stand on them, and you may see what I've saw, after you raise up your dropped jaw, I'll stand tall, as you call me the greatest living poet, who's risked it all, and risen above those who didn't know it, even though I've steady done shown it. Times on my side. Words have lives, even after their poet's have died.