When you kiss me my heart goes cold.
Becoming less bold, shamble body losing its soul.
Making my mind crush under the pressure of knowing
that you are not going to be coming back to our romantic dinners.
I have left my voice box on repeat with my previous approved speech.
Regurgitating “Yes sir, your kisses are my bliss”, “Yes sir, I am ok with this”.
But my days of being the confined concubine have ended.
No longer will I pretend that this heartbreak doesn’t hurt too much,
That seeing you with her doesn’t hurt too much.
Each time my mind rakes over these lines,
Trying to collect my thoughts to see if I did all I could to save this strange love.
Or was it doomed the day we started this twisted love game,
or maybe I should have said my final goodbyes when I learned your name.
Forgive me for I have gotten off subject,
I don’t want to bring any attention to my ill behavior
Cause honestly, I would rather live a lie,
Than have the ongoing day mares of you not by my side.
Even though you no longer reside within me, the confirmation of your kisses
Still make my heart go in overdrive, tying to think clearly,
Creating strategies to keep you near me.
I stand in the face of my frienemy, who tried to be a friend to me,
but little does she know that her kindness is killing me.
She makes it hard to hate her, when I know her soul was made for him.
My heart carries constant contusions of your “I love you’s” to another.
This game has created within me self hate.
I have regular psychological inter-debates to create a solution for why
I couldn’t be the center of your desire.
Why my love was never enough.
I have to believe that this was God’s will,
to have a angel in disguise be our catalyst,
bring us to such a rapid end,
But your kisses still linger on my skin, still making my heart go slow, screwed, and chopped up.
Your lips pressed against my skin causing my body to shudder,
no longer hearing the sound, just feeling the vibration.
I wish there was a return policy on broken hearts,
I am not even asking for a new one, just one that never knew you.
Because this one has no space for anything or anyone new… it cries, it smiles, and it longs for you.
Your scent is laced in my speech, so when I speak you essence still flow so freely.
Still making me feel weak and when I think that I am at my peak on missing you.
I catch a glimpse of your smile and my heart goes right back to being your love child.
After all the pain, I still want to thank you.
I learned that death is not defined by physically not being,
but it can come when your “I Do’s” are placed with someone
that is not your reflection in the mirror.
My lifeline now lingers on your left middle finger,
being my contestant reminder that we are really over.
I love you, this is my final Goodbye and
I will miss your kisses because they made my heart go…
Monday, October 6, 2008
Phenomenon
Some call me a phenomenon.
But I’d rather be called a poet.
Not like those who use the affirmation of hand claps to make known that they are better than most.
Parasite of prophets who try to host their insecurities in me;
Killing their creativity, giving themselves chemical burns,
in return to leave none of their own mind behind,
because stealing mine seems uncomplicated, unproblematic.
Being the wonderful person that I am,
I have been trying to build up the emotion to be kind to your painfully fragile state of mind….
But I am tired of being your “dope words” dealer,
Promising me that you will lick my clit for another hit.
I am tired of you using my “trigger happy” terminology, to get a hold of faux 10’s.
I will stitch my lips, protect my spit, and lock away my stories, before I let you duplicate my ancestry.
Even now, you are watching at my lips to see what words you can savor,
trying to bleed the ink from my poetic dynasty.
Oh you know them thoroughly, but only in theory.
We are tired of you leeching and bitching about “how all the great poets are gone”.
No baby, they have just gone home, their just tired of you trying to breach their domes.
I love how you think that you have blessed me by calling me a beast,
but what you should be really calling me is … mommy.
Because clearly I birth you,
My name is stained with distain on your pages; and it also claim that bootlegging is your daddy.
Honestly I don’t remember when that bastard jumped in my bed and rapped me.
But souvenirs of my labor are screaming off your typed paper.
This is your final warning because the next time you take my lines,
I will put this nine to your spine then I will really show you who is “rhyme or die”.
WOW, guess I can have Chris be my ghost writer too…
but I have a little assignment for you….
Imma need you to go home,
Read like 5 different dictionaries and STOP BITTING ME!!!!!!
And as far as you falling on your knees, praising me,
and calling me Poetry’s phenomenon of the 22nd century.
You can call me a poet because clearly you’re not one.
But I’d rather be called a poet.
Not like those who use the affirmation of hand claps to make known that they are better than most.
Parasite of prophets who try to host their insecurities in me;
Killing their creativity, giving themselves chemical burns,
in return to leave none of their own mind behind,
because stealing mine seems uncomplicated, unproblematic.
Being the wonderful person that I am,
I have been trying to build up the emotion to be kind to your painfully fragile state of mind….
But I am tired of being your “dope words” dealer,
Promising me that you will lick my clit for another hit.
I am tired of you using my “trigger happy” terminology, to get a hold of faux 10’s.
I will stitch my lips, protect my spit, and lock away my stories, before I let you duplicate my ancestry.
Even now, you are watching at my lips to see what words you can savor,
trying to bleed the ink from my poetic dynasty.
Oh you know them thoroughly, but only in theory.
We are tired of you leeching and bitching about “how all the great poets are gone”.
No baby, they have just gone home, their just tired of you trying to breach their domes.
I love how you think that you have blessed me by calling me a beast,
but what you should be really calling me is … mommy.
Because clearly I birth you,
My name is stained with distain on your pages; and it also claim that bootlegging is your daddy.
Honestly I don’t remember when that bastard jumped in my bed and rapped me.
But souvenirs of my labor are screaming off your typed paper.
This is your final warning because the next time you take my lines,
I will put this nine to your spine then I will really show you who is “rhyme or die”.
WOW, guess I can have Chris be my ghost writer too…
but I have a little assignment for you….
Imma need you to go home,
Read like 5 different dictionaries and STOP BITTING ME!!!!!!
And as far as you falling on your knees, praising me,
and calling me Poetry’s phenomenon of the 22nd century.
You can call me a poet because clearly you’re not one.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Death's Dance
His sound came crashing down like Death's redemption.
His best performance,
his movements so fluid that strangers took notice.
Through the slight breezy that carried him, the silence of his fall was defiance.
His body slicing through the air so gracefully,
but the thought of life not existing was crippling.
As i watched this burden down Angel be plucked from his heavenly balcony,
I was trying to understand why he chose a 50 story drop as his way to salvation.
I wondered if the life that God gave him was too much for his soul to bare.
Were his daemons anchord on his wings
And his decent was just a case of God not really being the wind beneath his wings.
I watched the ground cradle him, bones breaking, soul seeping.
I cupped what was left of his face and i saw him smile at me.
Looking at me like his life's work was complete.
Like he was the new Mortals Messiah and his sacrifice saved me.
I tried to be angry at his convoluted decision but all I could feel was fear.
Afraid to face the facts of his final choice.
I mean who is to say that if his shoes sized fit me perfectly,
that my ledge would have not been higher,
that my leap would have not been bigger,
that my soul would have not been casted down to a hell hotter,
because i now knew what was best for me.
Because I knew that God didn't love me,
understand me,
Know me.
We were looking down on him,
when he was the only one of us that was looking forward.
We thought of him as weak,
when he was the only one of us that was strong enough to face the other side.
Brave enough to defy his beliefs to see if Satan really held captive God's suicide souls.
I feared my findings because his thoughts were not to far from my own.
The end result of his leaps left me to seek the same end with the scars that i new own.
His dance show me the way to be truly free.
His beautiful dance came crashing into me.
His best performance,
his movements so fluid that strangers took notice.
Through the slight breezy that carried him, the silence of his fall was defiance.
His body slicing through the air so gracefully,
but the thought of life not existing was crippling.
As i watched this burden down Angel be plucked from his heavenly balcony,
I was trying to understand why he chose a 50 story drop as his way to salvation.
I wondered if the life that God gave him was too much for his soul to bare.
Were his daemons anchord on his wings
And his decent was just a case of God not really being the wind beneath his wings.
I watched the ground cradle him, bones breaking, soul seeping.
I cupped what was left of his face and i saw him smile at me.
Looking at me like his life's work was complete.
Like he was the new Mortals Messiah and his sacrifice saved me.
I tried to be angry at his convoluted decision but all I could feel was fear.
Afraid to face the facts of his final choice.
I mean who is to say that if his shoes sized fit me perfectly,
that my ledge would have not been higher,
that my leap would have not been bigger,
that my soul would have not been casted down to a hell hotter,
because i now knew what was best for me.
Because I knew that God didn't love me,
understand me,
Know me.
We were looking down on him,
when he was the only one of us that was looking forward.
We thought of him as weak,
when he was the only one of us that was strong enough to face the other side.
Brave enough to defy his beliefs to see if Satan really held captive God's suicide souls.
I feared my findings because his thoughts were not to far from my own.
The end result of his leaps left me to seek the same end with the scars that i new own.
His dance show me the way to be truly free.
His beautiful dance came crashing into me.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Spoken Father
He doesn’t carry his children’s pictures anymore,because seeing their images on Kodak refine paper is no substitution to the sound of their laughter.His sides are still hurting, hearing his 5 year old tell the tale of his now famous spider bite,and he still can’t get the story quite right.The few images that he has of them, eats away at him. He spits on mics to read and recite his history,he stares out at crowds an all he can see are their faces,pushing him to move the crowd ,always showing that they are proud to be descendents of his seed.giving him roars of applause before he even starts the piece and a piece of him dies.He pauses just to cry,so he can savor the salt of his tears to remember that he is still someone’s daddy.He would love nothing more to be their personal caddy,but his hustle is pimping progressive poetry,Not just wanting people to perceive him as a poor poet.Penning is problems on paper and performing, but at night,he lies in borrowed beds and prays “Father forgive me.”He walks into venues in his poetry ho suite and he sells his CD’s $5.00 a piece.Thinking about his next sex piece to get the money to feed his babies, because they are mentally and emotionally starving to be with their Daddy. I understand your struggle my brother as you struggle to maintain some sense of what your psychology degree calls “sanity”. And sometimes you stand within the four walls of your mind, just to scream at yourself that you are not crazy for leaving your babies. You design dreams of a better tomorrow, for the better pieces of you to know that you were fighting to be the man that you never had positive examples of becoming. You were more than just
A black man,
a white man,
a Latino man,
a hu-man.
That no longer wanted to live life through still picture frames, but wanted to die just to live for his children to say his noble name: Father. Father will never be a foreign word on their tongues. They will never look further than him to see what love feels like, what compassion looks like and what fighting for what’s right taste like. So yeah he never carries their pictures, because when he blinks, he sees them on the insides of his lids and when you see his blinks set on repeat,
he is watching their lifetime movie.
The newness of their birth still lingers in his nostrils,
and while he constantly exhales constant praise for them since their earthly introduction.
He simultaneously inhales into his lungs their innocence
which he uses to keep his blood moving because he no longer has a heart,
it was taken when mother earth, gave birth, to his Perfect Poems.
Even the groves in his hands have maneuvered themselves to spell out there names.
So when people ask him if he misses his kids, he says no.
He says they are here in the space that protects his soul,
they cover him,
they heal him,
missing them is not possible.
A black man,
a white man,
a Latino man,
a hu-man.
That no longer wanted to live life through still picture frames, but wanted to die just to live for his children to say his noble name: Father. Father will never be a foreign word on their tongues. They will never look further than him to see what love feels like, what compassion looks like and what fighting for what’s right taste like. So yeah he never carries their pictures, because when he blinks, he sees them on the insides of his lids and when you see his blinks set on repeat,
he is watching their lifetime movie.
The newness of their birth still lingers in his nostrils,
and while he constantly exhales constant praise for them since their earthly introduction.
He simultaneously inhales into his lungs their innocence
which he uses to keep his blood moving because he no longer has a heart,
it was taken when mother earth, gave birth, to his Perfect Poems.
Even the groves in his hands have maneuvered themselves to spell out there names.
So when people ask him if he misses his kids, he says no.
He says they are here in the space that protects his soul,
they cover him,
they heal him,
missing them is not possible.
This is for EKG
“And no I won’t by the phone”
Having a relationship though voicemails and text messages is just not enough for me anymore.
These binary 0’s and 1’s can’t shield my heart from your blackened sun.
It can’t make love to me on winter nights,
giving me the security that this old love is going to be alright.
See right now I am caught between this finger friendly fantasy and
this cold call reality, this fading reality that has me thinking
that your LOL’s, OMG, BRB, LUV, and TTYL’s mean you still love me
I pray that my VM’s, SMS, MMS, and e-mail’s get through to you
because well, I am through with you.
I’s through playing lines that I don’t even believe anymore.
I have had your name tattooed on my lips for ten years now and
now I am just tired of moving both of them.
I am tired of these voices controlling me,
making me jump every time I hear that ring back.
Talking about “Baby come back” ,
While I am trying to get back a bit of my own sanity that you have tried to back hand out of me,
You, well you now have a wifey that you creamed in and planted your seeds in,
Something that you told me that you never believed in,
And your baby girl is your seed that I need some sort of understanding,
like how could you let this happen, now you don’t have no answers for me
but You have vowed to protect her from men that followed in your footsteps ,
you are trying to reverse the way you treated me
praying that you doesn’t see is never revealed the real you,
you hate yourself but most of all you hate me,
because I left you face your 18 year reality that
you are not the FEW, that was PROUD to call themselves men,
my friend are nothing more than a pathetic penis,
you’re not a DICK, because you could never live up to the name,
Your Mandingo claim is darkened by how you sold your soul for a sham salvation.
Your shattered dream was to see me carry your seed and
birth beautiful poetry but my pros was never good enough for you,
but that was the journey that will never be travelled
I am leaving you this last voicemail that you will delete before you hear my voice.
You have already stopped my life support that I have kept connected to my heart through this IPhone,
so disconnects are nothing new to me.
The unlimited access to this world wide hell has left me tangled up
in my own disconnects of regret
your outsourced customer service has left me confused
conveniently providing an language barrier that never left room for open lines of communication.
How can this exquisite love affair be downgraded to were spoken words,
are a thing of the past and we pass off our feelings through ring backs
followed by a recording of your baritone voice that tells me the same ol lines …
“This is Richard, leave your number and I’ll hit you back.” … I am still waiting you bastard.
You have been wasting my unlimited media and
I can’t seem to break this never ending 2 year contact that
I willingly signed on the dotted line.
I hate this phone and you because you both have broken this warrior that use to be me in two,
for I can no longer hold up these bundle packages that I kept building for you.
My notepad is maxed out on memory trying to get you to remember the stories I have a written for you
to really see me,
I have rained down finite verbs and future progressives so you can get a chance to feel me.
“So no I won’t sit by the phone, no use crying bout it, I have to do with it and no I won’t sit by the phone.”
Word.
Having a relationship though voicemails and text messages is just not enough for me anymore.
These binary 0’s and 1’s can’t shield my heart from your blackened sun.
It can’t make love to me on winter nights,
giving me the security that this old love is going to be alright.
See right now I am caught between this finger friendly fantasy and
this cold call reality, this fading reality that has me thinking
that your LOL’s, OMG, BRB, LUV, and TTYL’s mean you still love me
I pray that my VM’s, SMS, MMS, and e-mail’s get through to you
because well, I am through with you.
I’s through playing lines that I don’t even believe anymore.
I have had your name tattooed on my lips for ten years now and
now I am just tired of moving both of them.
I am tired of these voices controlling me,
making me jump every time I hear that ring back.
Talking about “Baby come back” ,
While I am trying to get back a bit of my own sanity that you have tried to back hand out of me,
You, well you now have a wifey that you creamed in and planted your seeds in,
Something that you told me that you never believed in,
And your baby girl is your seed that I need some sort of understanding,
like how could you let this happen, now you don’t have no answers for me
but You have vowed to protect her from men that followed in your footsteps ,
you are trying to reverse the way you treated me
praying that you doesn’t see is never revealed the real you,
you hate yourself but most of all you hate me,
because I left you face your 18 year reality that
you are not the FEW, that was PROUD to call themselves men,
my friend are nothing more than a pathetic penis,
you’re not a DICK, because you could never live up to the name,
Your Mandingo claim is darkened by how you sold your soul for a sham salvation.
Your shattered dream was to see me carry your seed and
birth beautiful poetry but my pros was never good enough for you,
but that was the journey that will never be travelled
I am leaving you this last voicemail that you will delete before you hear my voice.
You have already stopped my life support that I have kept connected to my heart through this IPhone,
so disconnects are nothing new to me.
The unlimited access to this world wide hell has left me tangled up
in my own disconnects of regret
your outsourced customer service has left me confused
conveniently providing an language barrier that never left room for open lines of communication.
How can this exquisite love affair be downgraded to were spoken words,
are a thing of the past and we pass off our feelings through ring backs
followed by a recording of your baritone voice that tells me the same ol lines …
“This is Richard, leave your number and I’ll hit you back.” … I am still waiting you bastard.
You have been wasting my unlimited media and
I can’t seem to break this never ending 2 year contact that
I willingly signed on the dotted line.
I hate this phone and you because you both have broken this warrior that use to be me in two,
for I can no longer hold up these bundle packages that I kept building for you.
My notepad is maxed out on memory trying to get you to remember the stories I have a written for you
to really see me,
I have rained down finite verbs and future progressives so you can get a chance to feel me.
“So no I won’t sit by the phone, no use crying bout it, I have to do with it and no I won’t sit by the phone.”
Word.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I have been there.
I have been there.
Being your bed sheet fortress,
protecting you from the monster that they insisted that you call father,
he constantly trying to prove to you how much of a man he is
by trying to break you out of the man he wanted to be…..
he is jealous of you because you can still dream
while all he can muster up is night screams…
but you are so brave using me as your thin sheets of armor and you never forgot me…
you are my nighttime warrior.
I have been there.
Being the color wrapped in your iris as you watched mamma take her medicine daily,
in her favorite arm that she hates, for you to see.
She thinks that her smiles camouflages her concrete battle scars,
but little does she know that you can see right through her
and through her you found street’s beauty….
and because you were her beauty mark you marked the color in me as your Queen.
I have been there.
The ink that replaced the real tears that you refused to shed;
nevermore will these streets rule you, talk about you,
mock you and treat you as their favorite slave.
She wanted you to you be weak but she was the one that really needed thee...
we, only wanted to be heard,
now we have transformed in to beautiful birds,
doves that never have to cry again because
we live off angel dust which has removed the icy crust
that use to be our heart now we beat on the same
tempo and you are my melodic hero…
and as our metronomes sing synchronize beats that radiate our heat,
my hear will continue to sing the song of your undying shero.
I have been there.
Being the electronic messages that you received
when you found out that she was not yours,
was the transporter of the worst news in history and I knew it.
Heaven’s little angel is the reason you resume business with the Devil again,
the reason you started hustling again, slanging again,
gave up your 9 to 5 legal job to have enough bread to make her happy.
But your baby was worth it and you now know that being a father is not matched
with D-N-A but how well you are a P-O-P-P-A.
She is yours and you still fall to the floor thanking God for her
because she made you into the man that you are today….
Mainline Father…sideline mother.
I have been there.
Being your picture of a reflection that reflected that you were finally home,
I will be your biosphere dome,
where you know that our love could never leave room for infidelity to roam
because you have been there and we are ready for tomorrow.
Being your bed sheet fortress,
protecting you from the monster that they insisted that you call father,
he constantly trying to prove to you how much of a man he is
by trying to break you out of the man he wanted to be…..
he is jealous of you because you can still dream
while all he can muster up is night screams…
but you are so brave using me as your thin sheets of armor and you never forgot me…
you are my nighttime warrior.
I have been there.
Being the color wrapped in your iris as you watched mamma take her medicine daily,
in her favorite arm that she hates, for you to see.
She thinks that her smiles camouflages her concrete battle scars,
but little does she know that you can see right through her
and through her you found street’s beauty….
and because you were her beauty mark you marked the color in me as your Queen.
I have been there.
The ink that replaced the real tears that you refused to shed;
nevermore will these streets rule you, talk about you,
mock you and treat you as their favorite slave.
She wanted you to you be weak but she was the one that really needed thee...
we, only wanted to be heard,
now we have transformed in to beautiful birds,
doves that never have to cry again because
we live off angel dust which has removed the icy crust
that use to be our heart now we beat on the same
tempo and you are my melodic hero…
and as our metronomes sing synchronize beats that radiate our heat,
my hear will continue to sing the song of your undying shero.
I have been there.
Being the electronic messages that you received
when you found out that she was not yours,
was the transporter of the worst news in history and I knew it.
Heaven’s little angel is the reason you resume business with the Devil again,
the reason you started hustling again, slanging again,
gave up your 9 to 5 legal job to have enough bread to make her happy.
But your baby was worth it and you now know that being a father is not matched
with D-N-A but how well you are a P-O-P-P-A.
She is yours and you still fall to the floor thanking God for her
because she made you into the man that you are today….
Mainline Father…sideline mother.
I have been there.
Being your picture of a reflection that reflected that you were finally home,
I will be your biosphere dome,
where you know that our love could never leave room for infidelity to roam
because you have been there and we are ready for tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Formal Apology
She said that I was beautiful; she said that we would be best friends to the end.
As long as I did everything she said I would always be under her protection.
I was scared to be alone; my mother’s womb was never really my home, so I found shelter in her.
Before her, I was just the lost world’s baby girl, too afraid to be alone,
finding solace in whoever and whatever, just to not wanting to be trapped with myself.
I was dying to live right so someone will love me, then she came to me.
She made the fear that resided in my belly, leave me, she evicted him from me,
I was finally free to be the little girl that I desperately needed to be, wanted to be.
She started asking me for favors, started by asking politely to take her everywhere with me,
I didn’t care because anywhere she was or wanted to be I was already praying to already be there.
Then we started to have intimate slumber parties, where she would squeeze me so tightly
that my breathing was be exonerated from my body and I didn’t mind, she needed me.
I mean that was more than I could say about anybody.
I had her name tattooed on my tongue so all I could only speak her language.
I would cast spells to shield her from posers who tried to use her name in vain.
She asked me to touch her; it was never a question of if I was going to take her,
but how many position I can take her.
I did my best to try to hold the heat that she burned for me while trying to contain my fire too.
She asked me to taste her and I told her no.
I wanted to inhale her, bringing me to her skies where her clouds took me past 9, she staying pregnant,
trying to hold me together, anticipation mounting for my arrival.
Our breathing was synchronized and she and I became the perfect pattern,
patterns that matched beyond our spiritual treads, we were perfect.
Until I gained new friends, then I abandoned her, because it was not popular to be with her,
I was ashamed of her, I even started teasing her.
I was a part of the in crowd now; I could never be seen with the likes of her.
At lunch I ignored her, at worked I tortured her;
even at home I lost her, never holding her, never talking to her.
She became boring.
I thought I was doing great until she cornered me, choking me,
screaming at me “Don’t you remember me!
I was the one that was there for you when there was no body.
I was the one that held you at night, was your shoulder to cry on, I never left you.
I use to let you write inside me,
constantly in my womb, misspelling your misgiving and hiding them in me, I am your abandoned diary.
I was the one that you considered necessary... it was me poetry.”
Then I realized that all she wanted from me is my pen and loyalty and I failed her,
I put everything before her and I fell out of love with her.
She put me down and walked taking her final bow and my twisted stage.
I began to remember her strength and tenacity.
I could still hardly breathe but I remembered how she still was my respiratory.
She was the best to me and even though she hated me,
she still needed me and slowly I realized that I needed her too.
I vowed that weather I wrapped my tongue and lips around BIC’s or felt tips,
I will always write to her, I will always do right by her.
She is the best thing that will forever happen to me.
So my lady poetry, I am sorry and I hope that you can accept this as my Formal Apology.
As long as I did everything she said I would always be under her protection.
I was scared to be alone; my mother’s womb was never really my home, so I found shelter in her.
Before her, I was just the lost world’s baby girl, too afraid to be alone,
finding solace in whoever and whatever, just to not wanting to be trapped with myself.
I was dying to live right so someone will love me, then she came to me.
She made the fear that resided in my belly, leave me, she evicted him from me,
I was finally free to be the little girl that I desperately needed to be, wanted to be.
She started asking me for favors, started by asking politely to take her everywhere with me,
I didn’t care because anywhere she was or wanted to be I was already praying to already be there.
Then we started to have intimate slumber parties, where she would squeeze me so tightly
that my breathing was be exonerated from my body and I didn’t mind, she needed me.
I mean that was more than I could say about anybody.
I had her name tattooed on my tongue so all I could only speak her language.
I would cast spells to shield her from posers who tried to use her name in vain.
She asked me to touch her; it was never a question of if I was going to take her,
but how many position I can take her.
I did my best to try to hold the heat that she burned for me while trying to contain my fire too.
She asked me to taste her and I told her no.
I wanted to inhale her, bringing me to her skies where her clouds took me past 9, she staying pregnant,
trying to hold me together, anticipation mounting for my arrival.
Our breathing was synchronized and she and I became the perfect pattern,
patterns that matched beyond our spiritual treads, we were perfect.
Until I gained new friends, then I abandoned her, because it was not popular to be with her,
I was ashamed of her, I even started teasing her.
I was a part of the in crowd now; I could never be seen with the likes of her.
At lunch I ignored her, at worked I tortured her;
even at home I lost her, never holding her, never talking to her.
She became boring.
I thought I was doing great until she cornered me, choking me,
screaming at me “Don’t you remember me!
I was the one that was there for you when there was no body.
I was the one that held you at night, was your shoulder to cry on, I never left you.
I use to let you write inside me,
constantly in my womb, misspelling your misgiving and hiding them in me, I am your abandoned diary.
I was the one that you considered necessary... it was me poetry.”
Then I realized that all she wanted from me is my pen and loyalty and I failed her,
I put everything before her and I fell out of love with her.
She put me down and walked taking her final bow and my twisted stage.
I began to remember her strength and tenacity.
I could still hardly breathe but I remembered how she still was my respiratory.
She was the best to me and even though she hated me,
she still needed me and slowly I realized that I needed her too.
I vowed that weather I wrapped my tongue and lips around BIC’s or felt tips,
I will always write to her, I will always do right by her.
She is the best thing that will forever happen to me.
So my lady poetry, I am sorry and I hope that you can accept this as my Formal Apology.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Love Piece
Let us run away from here.
Let me hold you close while we let the sea of our new emotions overwhelm us.
I will be the path that enlightens your shadowy reality and
the caves on the side of my face will store your fears and fantasy,
forming new formalities that our facilities will have to focus on… float with me.
Let my tears be your liquid fortress, defeating demons that try to destroy you.
Before they have a chance to envelop you and deceive you, I will be your weapon of truth,
leaving gashes on your goliaths, gremlins and goblins and my prize would be your simile.
Finally being happy to just be, no longer afraid if they are going to take you way,
panicked about someone messing with your good name, you will just have to be mine to protect.
Your prize is you have complete ownership of my pride; I am your ride or die.
Our home with be our place of safety, where the world will only know shadows of our existence.
I am in love with you and after every mountain top and valley low I am so proud to say that we made it.
We have gotten the last song, last dance,
we have bowed out gracefully knowing that we have done the best we could we are each other reward.
God could not have done better, and our love and emotions will overflow
into cups that are will always run over.
They say that love don’t cost a thing, but I would pay with my very life for your success,
give you my limps if you need to walk again, needed to write again.
I would slash my BIC across my tendons, if you needed them to move again,
use me again,
making sure the every piece of me will be implanted in every piece of you until you and I are one.
When there is no more breath in me and I have fulfilled my destiny.
They will stretch me over the stage that the Medical Examiner performs on.
They will cut open my abdomen and I have stored all our secrets in
my unknowns will be known
they will discovery scare over my ribs and know that we match flawlessly.
My final report will say that I died trying to live for you.
You stole my soul to console the inner child within thee so
we can still float to our sea of emotions, settle in between mere mortal’s stares,
become anew in heaven’s morning dew.
This is us, this is me, this is you.
Let me hold you close while we let the sea of our new emotions overwhelm us.
I will be the path that enlightens your shadowy reality and
the caves on the side of my face will store your fears and fantasy,
forming new formalities that our facilities will have to focus on… float with me.
Let my tears be your liquid fortress, defeating demons that try to destroy you.
Before they have a chance to envelop you and deceive you, I will be your weapon of truth,
leaving gashes on your goliaths, gremlins and goblins and my prize would be your simile.
Finally being happy to just be, no longer afraid if they are going to take you way,
panicked about someone messing with your good name, you will just have to be mine to protect.
Your prize is you have complete ownership of my pride; I am your ride or die.
Our home with be our place of safety, where the world will only know shadows of our existence.
I am in love with you and after every mountain top and valley low I am so proud to say that we made it.
We have gotten the last song, last dance,
we have bowed out gracefully knowing that we have done the best we could we are each other reward.
God could not have done better, and our love and emotions will overflow
into cups that are will always run over.
They say that love don’t cost a thing, but I would pay with my very life for your success,
give you my limps if you need to walk again, needed to write again.
I would slash my BIC across my tendons, if you needed them to move again,
use me again,
making sure the every piece of me will be implanted in every piece of you until you and I are one.
When there is no more breath in me and I have fulfilled my destiny.
They will stretch me over the stage that the Medical Examiner performs on.
They will cut open my abdomen and I have stored all our secrets in
my unknowns will be known
they will discovery scare over my ribs and know that we match flawlessly.
My final report will say that I died trying to live for you.
You stole my soul to console the inner child within thee so
we can still float to our sea of emotions, settle in between mere mortal’s stares,
become anew in heaven’s morning dew.
This is us, this is me, this is you.
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.
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.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Phoenix Future's Dreams
Hotel fantasy,
See these hotels fantasies are mixed up with candle wax, naked backs and head board cracked. I wanted to make a movie or two, while the sun peaks in our room to learn how to make new galaxies. While making beats with your meat making me lose consciousness, giving in to the feeling of being free. I treasure your presents and every time you are in it I can’t help it but to back up on it making my juices run down my thighs as if they are trying to break records, me being the spectator while you win the gold, having your flag at full staff, and me singing our national anthem. You and I are as American at Peanut butter and jelly, our lovemaking never gets old it just gets wiser. I love the games we play, especially the ones where we place ourselves in dark rooms and you use your nose to guide you into my soft folds and you land your tongue on my ready throne. I play my part well too, using my hands that God built, that were on special order for your erections, tasting the fountain of you, to make the moment last for all eternity. You being inside me is my respiratory, creating strained visions of blue dots and pink ribbons. Making me believe that dreams really do come true, picking lockets and taking apart fruit pockets and pouring it all over you. Licking traces of battle scares and war wounds of loves gone wrong, taking care of your mental hurricanes with the swirling of my tongue, and you called her Katrina, so when you think of levy’s breaking you think of the cold around your heart breaking and how our love flood the streets and we will never call in emergency relief because we like the drift. I use the last piece of me to carry you into orgasmic wave after wave until your feet land on steady ground, and just when you think that we are done the torrential rain will start again, making this love drown you, never wanting to come up for air, you said that your breaths were mine to take and you don’t mine the stillness in your chest because it is a reminder of the peace that you have found in mind. See this is just not fucking, this is Beethoven‘s unwritten symphony, where quite beginnings create earth shaking crescendos to emphasize our different movements. 1/8 notes and ¾ beats guide your paste. I scream for the movements to end but you only press repeat so our pieces will start over again, hearing me cry all over again, playing me over again til you work me over and then we pause and we catch a bird’s eye view of our masterpiece. Your smaller frame is a wonderful deception of your devilish intentions and you constantly remind me that size does matter and pleasing me does too. See you have no problem getting on your hands and knees, putting my limbs over each shoulder and eating me until your feast is complete. Making sure all courses are served, making sure you take a piece of me home with you, so you can savior pieces of me later. You make me tired, sore, never board, animalistic, desperate for your kisses, aroused at night, making me feel like everything is going to be alright. You are my sweetest melody and you will always be set on repeat.
See these hotels fantasies are mixed up with candle wax, naked backs and head board cracked. I wanted to make a movie or two, while the sun peaks in our room to learn how to make new galaxies. While making beats with your meat making me lose consciousness, giving in to the feeling of being free. I treasure your presents and every time you are in it I can’t help it but to back up on it making my juices run down my thighs as if they are trying to break records, me being the spectator while you win the gold, having your flag at full staff, and me singing our national anthem. You and I are as American at Peanut butter and jelly, our lovemaking never gets old it just gets wiser. I love the games we play, especially the ones where we place ourselves in dark rooms and you use your nose to guide you into my soft folds and you land your tongue on my ready throne. I play my part well too, using my hands that God built, that were on special order for your erections, tasting the fountain of you, to make the moment last for all eternity. You being inside me is my respiratory, creating strained visions of blue dots and pink ribbons. Making me believe that dreams really do come true, picking lockets and taking apart fruit pockets and pouring it all over you. Licking traces of battle scares and war wounds of loves gone wrong, taking care of your mental hurricanes with the swirling of my tongue, and you called her Katrina, so when you think of levy’s breaking you think of the cold around your heart breaking and how our love flood the streets and we will never call in emergency relief because we like the drift. I use the last piece of me to carry you into orgasmic wave after wave until your feet land on steady ground, and just when you think that we are done the torrential rain will start again, making this love drown you, never wanting to come up for air, you said that your breaths were mine to take and you don’t mine the stillness in your chest because it is a reminder of the peace that you have found in mind. See this is just not fucking, this is Beethoven‘s unwritten symphony, where quite beginnings create earth shaking crescendos to emphasize our different movements. 1/8 notes and ¾ beats guide your paste. I scream for the movements to end but you only press repeat so our pieces will start over again, hearing me cry all over again, playing me over again til you work me over and then we pause and we catch a bird’s eye view of our masterpiece. Your smaller frame is a wonderful deception of your devilish intentions and you constantly remind me that size does matter and pleasing me does too. See you have no problem getting on your hands and knees, putting my limbs over each shoulder and eating me until your feast is complete. Making sure all courses are served, making sure you take a piece of me home with you, so you can savior pieces of me later. You make me tired, sore, never board, animalistic, desperate for your kisses, aroused at night, making me feel like everything is going to be alright. You are my sweetest melody and you will always be set on repeat.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
The BEST DAMN POEM....
The BEST DAMN POEM EVER!!!!!
Both: This is what you have all been waiting for.
J: We have come to show you what poetry is made for.
S: This poem that is about to spew from our lips is hot like. Like
J: Like Supa Relaxas. Hot
S: Like When Friday came out in theaters. Hot
J: Like No A/C in July and it’s already 103 and its only 7:45. Hot
S: Like Final Slam night at Ruta Maya Hot…
Both: OHHHH Like When Michael Jackson was Black Hot.
J: This poem is what 10’s heat seekers target for.
S: This Poem is the SHIT!!!
J: This is the best damn poem ever..
Both: If only we could remember the words..
S: Oh I remember it was about slavery
J: Girl naw, it was about how people abandon their babies, or crack heads, or how the street made us beast… lyrically
S: Fuck that I don’t want to talk about that depressing shit..
J: Then what the HELL you wanna talk about then
S: Oooo lets talk about FOOD.
J: Yeah food…
S: Yeah that Mickey D’s, Wendy’s, BK, Have it your way, Number 1 and Upsize that Bitch…. Until I have to make it side way just to make it though the door…
J: Girl did you eat today?
S: No… but you know what they say if you can’t eat it
Both: Write about it
J Well I don’t want to talk about that… I wanna do a piece about my Future Husband…
S: Hell no
J: About him carrying me away, sharing the same last name, and two becoming one all in the same day…
S: Bitch … no, I am 17 I don’t wanna talk about that Shit..
J Well I am twenty something.. so how bout you shut the hell up…
S: oh I know lets talk about ex- boyfriends.
J: YEAH
S: And how they cheated on me
J: YEAH
S: And when I saw him last week, I carved his heart out with a stiletto, and fed it to my cat Fe Fe
J: Yeah…. What the hell..
S: I mean figuratively speaking.
J RIGHT… this bitch is crazy
S: Hey I heard that…
J Anyway… let’s talk about how balers get paid more than Teachers and to reach us takes acts from congress to impeach our primitive thinking that we are inferior to Everybody.
S: Or how gas prices are so high
J: and they are doing everything they can to lower them.
S: but I am still at gas pumps, trying to decide between driving my little sister to school or giving her lunch money. Knowing the petroleum will not foster the fuel that she needs to succeed in this life,
Both: but I can’t fight the butterflies that flutter freely in my belly when I see that my tank is on E.
S: and I ain’t getting no pay raises any time soon, because the American dollar is weaker than the Paso.
J: And on top of the car not moving… I still got water bills, light bills, school bills, and bills bills that keep bothering me.. Knocking on my door constantly. talking about..
S: Hello Ms. Charles … we were just wondering …When are you going to pay..
J: And I don’t know what to say, to keep them at bay, I tried to substitute my money with comedy cause my money was always really funny and i would start my set by saying…
S: Why did the chicken cross the road?
J: and they would say…
S: to pay their bills on time…
J: I guess they never understood my jokes….
S: And the folks at my school keep laughing at me… telling me that poetry aint gonna get me nowhere. Laughing at me when they see me spiting poetry on stages that they call cafeteria tables…
J: know what you should tell them..
S: What..
J: WE SPIT HOT FIRE!!!!
S: And we have five reasons why:
Both: Cause
J: ONE idea can move a nation
S: TWO people change lives on stages
J: THREE mins and 10 sec is all I need to relieve my stress.
S: FOUR wanna be poets with score boards that give..
Both: FIVE judgmental marks we will do you a favor and start back at… ONE
J: I remember what the piece about…
S: oh great what…
J: Movies
S: Movies? What crazy Lady…
J: About how Dirty old men… Think they love their wives…. only they don’t know why they got married…so they decide to move to schoolyards to find their new House Bunny.. only to find out older sister Phoenix gotta GUN…
S: Phoenix’s Gotta GUN!!!!
J: no bitch it’s just the line…
S: OH.. Right I knew that..
J: Oh I remember this was our cocky piece.. so I know that you had to start it cause you are the cocky one anyway
S: I don’t know what you are talking about…
J: Yeah weren’t you the one talking about how you are a phenomenon.
S: No
J: How fire flows freely every time you part your lips.
S: Maybe
J: and how it translates through your very finger tips
S: ok.. Shit but who can blame me… I mean look at me I am fucking fabulous.
J: (Snif)… you smell something…
S: naw girl what….
J: (Snif) I smell bullshit…..
S: Ha Ha you used my own line against me… funny sleep with one eye open
J: What’s that’s suppose to mean… anyway… we have promised the people something hot and we have not even started the piece yet..
S: They’ll be alright
J: Girl you know its not right to keep people waiting…
S: Well do you remember the damn piece
J: That is not the point… we should leave them with something…
S: A message to take back to the Kids.....
Both: Fuck It eat vegetables…
Both: This is what you have all been waiting for.
J: We have come to show you what poetry is made for.
S: This poem that is about to spew from our lips is hot like. Like
J: Like Supa Relaxas. Hot
S: Like When Friday came out in theaters. Hot
J: Like No A/C in July and it’s already 103 and its only 7:45. Hot
S: Like Final Slam night at Ruta Maya Hot…
Both: OHHHH Like When Michael Jackson was Black Hot.
J: This poem is what 10’s heat seekers target for.
S: This Poem is the SHIT!!!
J: This is the best damn poem ever..
Both: If only we could remember the words..
S: Oh I remember it was about slavery
J: Girl naw, it was about how people abandon their babies, or crack heads, or how the street made us beast… lyrically
S: Fuck that I don’t want to talk about that depressing shit..
J: Then what the HELL you wanna talk about then
S: Oooo lets talk about FOOD.
J: Yeah food…
S: Yeah that Mickey D’s, Wendy’s, BK, Have it your way, Number 1 and Upsize that Bitch…. Until I have to make it side way just to make it though the door…
J: Girl did you eat today?
S: No… but you know what they say if you can’t eat it
Both: Write about it
J Well I don’t want to talk about that… I wanna do a piece about my Future Husband…
S: Hell no
J: About him carrying me away, sharing the same last name, and two becoming one all in the same day…
S: Bitch … no, I am 17 I don’t wanna talk about that Shit..
J Well I am twenty something.. so how bout you shut the hell up…
S: oh I know lets talk about ex- boyfriends.
J: YEAH
S: And how they cheated on me
J: YEAH
S: And when I saw him last week, I carved his heart out with a stiletto, and fed it to my cat Fe Fe
J: Yeah…. What the hell..
S: I mean figuratively speaking.
J RIGHT… this bitch is crazy
S: Hey I heard that…
J Anyway… let’s talk about how balers get paid more than Teachers and to reach us takes acts from congress to impeach our primitive thinking that we are inferior to Everybody.
S: Or how gas prices are so high
J: and they are doing everything they can to lower them.
S: but I am still at gas pumps, trying to decide between driving my little sister to school or giving her lunch money. Knowing the petroleum will not foster the fuel that she needs to succeed in this life,
Both: but I can’t fight the butterflies that flutter freely in my belly when I see that my tank is on E.
S: and I ain’t getting no pay raises any time soon, because the American dollar is weaker than the Paso.
J: And on top of the car not moving… I still got water bills, light bills, school bills, and bills bills that keep bothering me.. Knocking on my door constantly. talking about..
S: Hello Ms. Charles … we were just wondering …When are you going to pay..
J: And I don’t know what to say, to keep them at bay, I tried to substitute my money with comedy cause my money was always really funny and i would start my set by saying…
S: Why did the chicken cross the road?
J: and they would say…
S: to pay their bills on time…
J: I guess they never understood my jokes….
S: And the folks at my school keep laughing at me… telling me that poetry aint gonna get me nowhere. Laughing at me when they see me spiting poetry on stages that they call cafeteria tables…
J: know what you should tell them..
S: What..
J: WE SPIT HOT FIRE!!!!
S: And we have five reasons why:
Both: Cause
J: ONE idea can move a nation
S: TWO people change lives on stages
J: THREE mins and 10 sec is all I need to relieve my stress.
S: FOUR wanna be poets with score boards that give..
Both: FIVE judgmental marks we will do you a favor and start back at… ONE
J: I remember what the piece about…
S: oh great what…
J: Movies
S: Movies? What crazy Lady…
J: About how Dirty old men… Think they love their wives…. only they don’t know why they got married…so they decide to move to schoolyards to find their new House Bunny.. only to find out older sister Phoenix gotta GUN…
S: Phoenix’s Gotta GUN!!!!
J: no bitch it’s just the line…
S: OH.. Right I knew that..
J: Oh I remember this was our cocky piece.. so I know that you had to start it cause you are the cocky one anyway
S: I don’t know what you are talking about…
J: Yeah weren’t you the one talking about how you are a phenomenon.
S: No
J: How fire flows freely every time you part your lips.
S: Maybe
J: and how it translates through your very finger tips
S: ok.. Shit but who can blame me… I mean look at me I am fucking fabulous.
J: (Snif)… you smell something…
S: naw girl what….
J: (Snif) I smell bullshit…..
S: Ha Ha you used my own line against me… funny sleep with one eye open
J: What’s that’s suppose to mean… anyway… we have promised the people something hot and we have not even started the piece yet..
S: They’ll be alright
J: Girl you know its not right to keep people waiting…
S: Well do you remember the damn piece
J: That is not the point… we should leave them with something…
S: A message to take back to the Kids.....
Both: Fuck It eat vegetables…
Friday, August 22, 2008
Dinner Tables
Booty sweat is neither polite nor proper to say over dinner tables, but she was never taught that. She spreads her booty cheeks so all men can seek her, they fill her in with their random meat and that was the peak of her past time and my caution rhymes don’t seem to reach her. I can’t be there for her; I can’t shield her from intruders because she does not mind them invading her. Her 3rd eye has been blinded by brothel bullies being born from bastard children, cradled in modern bath houses, becoming Brutus with grins of outsized crescent moons and, all the while my star shines on stages , bouncing to beats that her mental capacity is powerless to understand but her body responds well to. The blood in her streams have dance to these tantric rhythms long before she was taken from her tribesmen , long before she was bribed into thinking that strip clubs, slick DUBS and slobbing slick dicks for profit was the standard for her celestial being. See she didn’t know that we only have one truth that holds proof of the future of our seeds, which now proceeds to bleed that our existence is only present in shadows of what we were designed to be, we have never been fed food for thought now we are starving. Seeking for nourishment from path that Satan designed , I am trying to seal this gate close but you only want hell to wash over you and I don’t know how to stop you, my sister I don’t know how to save you, don’t know how to pull you from the streets that pled for your life force daily. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough or maybe you were not listening when I told you to get up. Don’t turn your back from me because while these predators are looking at you to feed their animal need they are looking at me. Waiting for me to spread my limbs and settle for the trend of being comfortable in this den of sin and I am waiting for the beat to drop off daily, but you keep shaking, and the shay butter that you have tried to cover your scars with is not working, and Baby girl the positive images that you seek is no longer free, even for a peak , we have shattered your self esteem and you are in need of cosmic MD’s to connected your constellation ties that have been cut off from our heaven and to heal the wounds that these concrete elements have been used to erode your first-class name. Being judged by second level brains, giving you the third degree in rivers too deep for us to cross, but this inner war was her relaxation, Our minds are transfixed on her blameless sand scripts, and she didn’t mind that their eyes are fixed on she, but their eyes are fixed on me, their eyes are fixed on we and our winds and waves will never match them, with The forecaster predictions of the beast arrival has been compromised , she says that there will be isolated showers on our icy exterior , which will leave our interior hollow, we are now afraid to face our new reality, so we have chosen to call this our safe space, but baby girl this space was not your to take over , this was not your time to look over, and the sweat that you have produced has left landmarks in the sands of our minds, with your finger tips, still lingering on our pulsing lines and I can’t save you but I wish that I could, and I can’t be you but I would take your place if I could, and all I can do is wait for you to see what’s proper at dinner tables and for you to learn that you don’t have to sit there if you want not to.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
To Mothers everywhere
Dear Mommy, I know you didn't just merely appear out of thin air, live on this earth for a while, telling me what I can and cannot do and then continue your journey to its next great adventure. But on the contrary you have being living to give their very best to your children and even to the world and you are never worried if you will receive some great reward for your deeds, but you just did what you had to do because it was your nature, and if you had to do it all over again, you would, just to see the smile on my face.
I don't know if the memo got to you but, God has built a museum titled "His BEST Work" and in it there is a Hall of the bravest and strongest women that have walked this earth and Eve, the mother of us all, is its Keeper, her charge is to watch over every animated portrait, that even Hogwarts would boast about, and she makes sure that every piece is eye level from one another so that they can share their stories on triumphs and failures so that the new pieces that are added to the collection will be better than the last. Above the exhibit there is a marquee that says "Watch and Listen because these women have dined on great of wisdom and would love to share their plate with you."
Hallmark has made a mockery of the day we are suppose to honor you in attempts to make you feel special. We regurgitate out our I love you's and thank you's just to say that we made it on time, they have boxed you into 24 hours to make sure that you feel honored, but you tell you the truth, it would be the marathon of my life just to express everything that cards and gift attempted to do just to show you that my very breathing requires instructions from you, and this world still needs you so you can usher along all the future her stories that have not been told yet. Your name shall be tattooed on my tongue so that the very being of who I am could not contain itself, automatically spilling out praised to you, and helping the people I meet on my own journey to know that they are beautiful just like you and that they deserve so much better out of this life like you do too .
The bond that holds us together is strong enough to piece together stars to make the most beautiful consolations and without you in my life they would on make rather boring simple shapes. I have been hook on this drug called a mother's love for 23 years and I have been getting my friends have been getting high too just because they are near you. Your love and care for me has brought me up to St. Elmo's peak just looking down at those who were not a fortunate to meet you and now I have your love pumped into me with IV's just to continually have an never ending supply of your constant quest in me search for love, life and liberty.
Your resume could never fit on one page of what you do for me. Your Jamaican profile includes but not limited to: a doctor, a lawyer, a taxi driver, a bank teller, a psychologist, a butler, a cook, even a parole officer and any other jobs that may come up in your lifetime and you would do it all with a smile (sometimes) and to your credit amazement you never stopped loving me but I never tried you too much because you even though you ran the world with a heart of Gold , your fist of steel was not too far behind, but your heart never lost its value and your iron was tough but it never rusted away and I knew that you were always going to be here to stay. I still marvel at the range of your emotions, how in one mine we could be at each other throats about me "stealing my own car" and the next you were crying because I was flying away on a 747 and you were praying that I would come back with the same "handle with care" sticker that you put on my back when I was not looking. Thank you for spreading your wings to protect my heart and dreams from the harsh reality of this world…. I would not be the woman I am without you being there to mold the unshaped clay that God gave you. This is for you Cynthia Ann Joshua Charles for being my everything and being the mural I walk past in the Greatness Mothers Hall of Fame.
I don't know if the memo got to you but, God has built a museum titled "His BEST Work" and in it there is a Hall of the bravest and strongest women that have walked this earth and Eve, the mother of us all, is its Keeper, her charge is to watch over every animated portrait, that even Hogwarts would boast about, and she makes sure that every piece is eye level from one another so that they can share their stories on triumphs and failures so that the new pieces that are added to the collection will be better than the last. Above the exhibit there is a marquee that says "Watch and Listen because these women have dined on great of wisdom and would love to share their plate with you."
Hallmark has made a mockery of the day we are suppose to honor you in attempts to make you feel special. We regurgitate out our I love you's and thank you's just to say that we made it on time, they have boxed you into 24 hours to make sure that you feel honored, but you tell you the truth, it would be the marathon of my life just to express everything that cards and gift attempted to do just to show you that my very breathing requires instructions from you, and this world still needs you so you can usher along all the future her stories that have not been told yet. Your name shall be tattooed on my tongue so that the very being of who I am could not contain itself, automatically spilling out praised to you, and helping the people I meet on my own journey to know that they are beautiful just like you and that they deserve so much better out of this life like you do too .
The bond that holds us together is strong enough to piece together stars to make the most beautiful consolations and without you in my life they would on make rather boring simple shapes. I have been hook on this drug called a mother's love for 23 years and I have been getting my friends have been getting high too just because they are near you. Your love and care for me has brought me up to St. Elmo's peak just looking down at those who were not a fortunate to meet you and now I have your love pumped into me with IV's just to continually have an never ending supply of your constant quest in me search for love, life and liberty.
Your resume could never fit on one page of what you do for me. Your Jamaican profile includes but not limited to: a doctor, a lawyer, a taxi driver, a bank teller, a psychologist, a butler, a cook, even a parole officer and any other jobs that may come up in your lifetime and you would do it all with a smile (sometimes) and to your credit amazement you never stopped loving me but I never tried you too much because you even though you ran the world with a heart of Gold , your fist of steel was not too far behind, but your heart never lost its value and your iron was tough but it never rusted away and I knew that you were always going to be here to stay. I still marvel at the range of your emotions, how in one mine we could be at each other throats about me "stealing my own car" and the next you were crying because I was flying away on a 747 and you were praying that I would come back with the same "handle with care" sticker that you put on my back when I was not looking. Thank you for spreading your wings to protect my heart and dreams from the harsh reality of this world…. I would not be the woman I am without you being there to mold the unshaped clay that God gave you. This is for you Cynthia Ann Joshua Charles for being my everything and being the mural I walk past in the Greatness Mothers Hall of Fame.
To the poet who does not speak
Angels who can no longer put pen to pad and grow. Ghost who can't stand on stages, breathe through mics,
have electrical currents, current through the crowds, making them loud
and proud just to be a part of their sound. Dead poets mouths filled with last words, last thoughts, last spasmodic creative incisions that will never make suicides jumps off of still tonguesNever to be cut from now silent minds on operating tables. I come to you as their open wound not really knowing how to piece me back together but I would rather stay open,
Praying that I have become the reparation for those that have gone too soon. Hoping that their words will flow through me
As they take their new celestial bodies to give everyone of you air hugs and butterfly kisses one more time before they exit stage right.
We, desperately finding peace in the fact that our warriors
Fought the good fight without regret
They held on, long enough
Giving us one last kind word, one more sly wink goodbye
Just to remind us that they are going to be alright and
With time we will be alright without them around… physically
To remind us that we are warriors
Just because they are gone doesn't mean that the war is over but it has only evolved.
They resolve to shout at us in their silence to get us to fight on. So from here on I will fight...
So from here on we will fight…No longer are we to keep my mouths shut while our comrades,
Lie in graves, when we would have traded anything for them to be on this stage
We will breathe their ashes to keep our hands steady and keeping our pens ready, to be our very best
Never taking for granted the complex simplicity of this life
Remembering that being on this stage is not a choice but
This is our destiny …our legacy I could never take back what was done to me, because the day you lost your voice to death’s calling card… I finally found mine
Instead of going against you in battles we speak in unison for now
I have the honor of you living in me and I finally know now
That this is where I was suppose to be. So when we come to open mics, slams, poetry house parties, talent shows, brave new voices, nationals, or any where you can speak your mind.
Know that this could be your final kiss goodbye, and let them know that we love this..
have electrical currents, current through the crowds, making them loud
and proud just to be a part of their sound. Dead poets mouths filled with last words, last thoughts, last spasmodic creative incisions that will never make suicides jumps off of still tonguesNever to be cut from now silent minds on operating tables. I come to you as their open wound not really knowing how to piece me back together but I would rather stay open,
Praying that I have become the reparation for those that have gone too soon. Hoping that their words will flow through me
As they take their new celestial bodies to give everyone of you air hugs and butterfly kisses one more time before they exit stage right.
We, desperately finding peace in the fact that our warriors
Fought the good fight without regret
They held on, long enough
Giving us one last kind word, one more sly wink goodbye
Just to remind us that they are going to be alright and
With time we will be alright without them around… physically
To remind us that we are warriors
Just because they are gone doesn't mean that the war is over but it has only evolved.
They resolve to shout at us in their silence to get us to fight on. So from here on I will fight...
So from here on we will fight…No longer are we to keep my mouths shut while our comrades,
Lie in graves, when we would have traded anything for them to be on this stage
We will breathe their ashes to keep our hands steady and keeping our pens ready, to be our very best
Never taking for granted the complex simplicity of this life
Remembering that being on this stage is not a choice but
This is our destiny …our legacy I could never take back what was done to me, because the day you lost your voice to death’s calling card… I finally found mine
Instead of going against you in battles we speak in unison for now
I have the honor of you living in me and I finally know now
That this is where I was suppose to be. So when we come to open mics, slams, poetry house parties, talent shows, brave new voices, nationals, or any where you can speak your mind.
Know that this could be your final kiss goodbye, and let them know that we love this..
Poetry needs me
I spit because it needs me.
This is not a game but it is simple elementary.
You see I don't say words for your applause or the melodic tempo of you approval
But because God has put this in me, sometimes I feel like the prophet Jeremiah was speaking to me when he said, " I can for get the LORD and no longer speak his name, but his word is inside me like a burning fire, shut up in my bones. I wear myself out holding it in and I can not do it any longer.
I spit because it feeds me.
When I sit down at my fake desk and I listen to my people before me.
They are screaming at me, pushing me to move forward.
They tell me to remember your mother who laid on her back in the belly of the beast to the land of the free.
They tell me to remember to look down when Ol' Masta passes by, never look him in the eyes, just fix your mind on the colored only sign and please… please make sure that you are in before nine. I look over the horizon to see my people crossing over that freedom bridge singing " We shall over come" only to be met by the good Ol' boys in blue ready to PROTECT the White ideals of what is right and SERVING the DEVIL himself. As I look up at the great oak tree I here the whispers from my fathers hanging from the great oak tree, with their hands bound and their burned do this in remembrance of me.
I spit because you need me.
I have been quite for too too long and you have talked your self into believing that I never existed. You tried to forget about me. You said that she was just a myth, created by the powers that be to strike fear into all that believes that she was sent to wipe away all the old shit and usher in the new. But I came to tell you that I have been freed from the inner prison that Tova put me in. I am not the girl who would never speak her minds peace. I am the PHONEIX who has come out of the ashes of despair to save you. So I just wanted to say Thank you for your presence but rest now because the PHONEIX is here…
This is not a game but it is simple elementary.
You see I don't say words for your applause or the melodic tempo of you approval
But because God has put this in me, sometimes I feel like the prophet Jeremiah was speaking to me when he said, " I can for get the LORD and no longer speak his name, but his word is inside me like a burning fire, shut up in my bones. I wear myself out holding it in and I can not do it any longer.
I spit because it feeds me.
When I sit down at my fake desk and I listen to my people before me.
They are screaming at me, pushing me to move forward.
They tell me to remember your mother who laid on her back in the belly of the beast to the land of the free.
They tell me to remember to look down when Ol' Masta passes by, never look him in the eyes, just fix your mind on the colored only sign and please… please make sure that you are in before nine. I look over the horizon to see my people crossing over that freedom bridge singing " We shall over come" only to be met by the good Ol' boys in blue ready to PROTECT the White ideals of what is right and SERVING the DEVIL himself. As I look up at the great oak tree I here the whispers from my fathers hanging from the great oak tree, with their hands bound and their burned do this in remembrance of me.
I spit because you need me.
I have been quite for too too long and you have talked your self into believing that I never existed. You tried to forget about me. You said that she was just a myth, created by the powers that be to strike fear into all that believes that she was sent to wipe away all the old shit and usher in the new. But I came to tell you that I have been freed from the inner prison that Tova put me in. I am not the girl who would never speak her minds peace. I am the PHONEIX who has come out of the ashes of despair to save you. So I just wanted to say Thank you for your presence but rest now because the PHONEIX is here…
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