The Killer Poet

At 23, no one ever thought of me to be a poetic nightmare, striking fear in those who try to test me.
Though I always came off as kind of funny with violent tendencies,
my father never mentioned I was a Rhymester reaper,
devouring the devil’s demons for dinner before you even understood my breakfast.
I cannot be stopped, I dream in stanzas, breaking up lines to make room for my imagination,
creating barriers to separate the poets from the posers, trying to get closer to blazing beds.
All I wanted is to be fed.
if you don’t know how to use this art correctly and accurately, I will take your lunch money and your cookies.
My creator doesn’t understand me and the woman that birth me and ashamed of me, she is scared of me.
Praying to God that he will smite me but I am too powerful to be taken.
And she is sadly mistaken if she thinks that I will be dismissed because this world doesn’t know what to do with me.
I am the apple seed that proceeds to bleeds understanding.
I am the original sin, collecting souls for the benefit of my pen.
People’s response to me is funny,
they cry “why is she not using her power for good…
aspiring people to be a doctor, a lawyer, a architect or anything to bring people back to reality”.
I laugh as I have them waiting in baited breath for my response
I advise the masses that they can be all those things,
can’t they see...but I don’t need technical terms to be me.
I will never be legally called JP, MD.
But when I speak, I stop aneurisms of ignorance,
giving the spiritually sick, time to open their ears and seep in truth.
I take my knives that paper mate designed,
carve my words in their chest,
cutting out all impurities and only leaving them hollow and hungry
constantly search for the truth that only I and poets alike I can fill,
making their eyes see through blinders,
serving the essence of souls to be worthy of me again, to feel again, to heal again.
And the rumors are true; I will not be your never local destructive DA, or the never corrosive corporate head,
giving head just to say that I got ahead.
But I sit on juries being persecuted every day,
witnessing what good words and do when they are in the wrong hands.
I can testify seeing the truth being cast off dinner tables,
disregarded as scraps that only the house pet is worthy to savor.
I give sworn testaments, seeing lies remain the welcomes guest of honor, no longer needing an invitation.
I have seen strong communities become content with fairytales
they keep them closer to their hearts than their obvious better halves,
giving more praise to the creatures of their craniums than their own children.
But this burden down angel is tired of the lies and ready to start fighting …
stealing what the rich have taken for granted and disturbing a food for thought to the starving,
making martyrs out of mortals who marvel at my magic.
I will restore order to this poetic injustice even if I have to take out one to save thousands.
And yes, my 1950’s based education will never take me to see my name on buildings,
made by poor man’s hands, bloody and burned laboring over there new master’s plans.
While the new plantations are being built in the center of town,
While these “soft hand” landowners,
who don’t give a damn about whose lives or communities they destroy,
they just see prime land , the only lesson that they retained is how to take.
Taking from good hard working people and transforming East to Central,
modernizing black historical landmarks,
claiming that they are reviving our inner cities,
but where was all this modernization when blacks could step foot on UT campus…
tell how much we have modernized if our population is still only at 2%.
Their game is to devour our youth as they handcuff them and put them in noose.
I want to build mansions in the lost man’s mind’s eyes,
constructing pillars of strength for the weak and painting walls of encouragement to the lost.
My blood sweat and tears are mixed together to create ink so my pen never runs dry,
I never wanted my name on provisional buildings but on the eternal hearts of men,
when I am called to Glory, the best parts of me will always live on…
I, we are gifts called God’s lyrical assassins.
We are the ones that are never spoken of cause the mere rhythm of our names,
steals volatile vocabulary that we use to build our Menacing, Metaphor Military
taking out anyone that tries to forge our father Poetry’s name and
abuse our mother allegory because we are her legacy.
So if you see my brothers and sisters in the streets, choose wisely what you say.
And for your sake,
I hope that it was worth it.