Sounds And What They Are

This poem took roughly 30 minutes to compose. Feedback welcome.
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The crunch of a potato chip is
not some anguished cry;
it is the gentle murmur
of compliant satisfaction.

The glug of a cola is
not some savage sound;
it is the soft and subtle sigh
of complacent consonance.

Addiction does
not howl with destructive revelry; it
trudges in weary silence,
passively undisturbing,
narcoleptically undisturbed.

Political humor bites
with all the geriatric toothlessness of
caustic sludge,
incessantly regurgitating,
perennially indisposed.

Sounds And What They Are
is not some incisive roar;
it rings hollow
under the crushing weight of its own hypocrisy.

The sound of an oreo is the sound
of the silent lamentation of the soul.

Lyrics: I Have The Best Words

My third rap. Excessive wordplay, gratuitous rhyme scheme, and validation-seeking flaunting, all inspired by certain Trump quotes (italicized) I found especially funny.
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I have the best words, Dubya coulda called me to save the Kurds, I’m absurdly immersed in diverse terms, my terse verse will reimburse Lazarus with a worse hearse, that’s a perverse reversal of a dispersed curse, rehearsing a coercing of life itself dispersing, a mercy killing by mere conversing.

I’m so humble, never fumble, never crumble, never stumble, but I’ll rope a dope like Rumble in the Jungle, make Foreman tumble while formin’ jumbles of conjunctive mumbles like a grumbling Dumbledore, my bumbling’s at the core an eon of lore, start a war with naught but vocal cords, slaughter more boorish florists than a forest shortage, across the world it’s the same old story: Chinese kid ascends to glory with nothing more than his guts, and an august gust of his musk at dusk -- and just the robust lust it mustered is enough to snuff injustice, like small green muppet pullin’ spaceships up ‘fore he kicks the bucket.

I know words like bigly, I could have saved Pompeii by parleying quickly, lauded Hawking -- now he’s jogging briskly, called Dorian Grey, made his portrait sickly, better get a fig leaf when I whisper glibly

So buff my rebuff sloughs off a gruff ox like I’m coughing up pop rocks, robbed Gringotts with my rough maw, my Hajj-worthy tough talk is sign of your loss, a cross between the Great Mosque and a Sino-boss, oscillating cord like a sine of floss, glossy process like a lustrous Haber-Bosch, my words nourish like ammonia, gosh, honestly a toss up between the time I quashed a rough mosh pit with a posh mitt made of nothing but lofty postulates, or when apostles flocked to my shock-and-awe wrought lips across the brainwashing I offhandedly tossed off, my panache causes nausea in life forms I’ve crossed off.

I know all the best words keep em in my pocket, like a shard of my soul held in a locket, flex my lexicon and launch a rocket, grab my vocab and God can’t stop it

You’re geriatric, I’m doin’ hat tricks, makin’ berets and bowlers out of mattress fabrics, three in a row like pseudoruminant gastrics, cause anaphylaxis with my intensive tactics, tic tacs toe to me for prophylaxis, of halitosis, I’m a maxi pad, I don’t know meiosis, my own sis insists I’m the apotheosis, so incisive my decisive dismissal incites civs to fizzle out like sizzling gristle, an abyssal vice for grizzled tribes in a missile crisis, watch as my advice ices ISIS, and I’ve made sacrifices, like making so much money I forget what strife is.