separation anxiety

She turns her head
for she wishes not to be plagued by images
of my pain
in her dreams,
pulls on her hood to mask supernatural beauty,
turns, and walks away,
leaving my corpse to restlessly lie
on cold earth.
i find the strength to keep one eye open
just long enough to witness the distance grow
hopelessly praying
she will grace me with one final glance
with no such luck
i let
go

dont worry about it

You are an unsymmetrical butterfly
for your beauty is beyond the measure of nature
i would need to master at least 3 new languages
to muster up the words that can justly describe
your unforgiving loveliness.
Unfortunately im only fluent in Ebonics
so the phrase "GOD DAMN SON!"
which was my initial reaction
was less than a fraction
worthy to address your souls sum.
you evoke words i didnt know i possessed
yet when we make eye contact they turn and run down my tongue
thus i remain silent
but dont worry about it.

tears

Only the eyes of a hip hop head
would drop tears
screaming onomatopoeia's
when he crys
its like hes dropping beats
they fall with booms and baps
carpet booming sadness
from the souls windows
annihilating the ants of the asphalt
its funny how your problems never seem to
contain them selves
to pertain to yourself
and so its contagious sorrows
filling the trees hallows
making the mad dog howellllll
which in tern wakes up the old man
who walks to work with a scowl
because he got no sleep last night
which might explain why when he read that bill he signed
he skipped the last line
and legalized racial profiling
so on the way to the spot
the hip hop head got got
pulled over and cuffed by a cop
unrightfully detained
so back he fought
an extended sentence
was his only reward for his civil rights persistence
and so
boom boom bap
alone in a cell
boom boom bap
the hip hop head cries
boom boom bap
the poet cries
boom boom bap
my people cry
boom boom bap bap
onomatopoeia tears.

im that type of poet

i dont touch mics
in fear they might spontaneously com-bust
im the jeffery domer of poetry
i open mics till you can see there guts
i spit real shit everybody feels
you can say my poems are sluts
with vivacious similes and big ol butts
i got lines that dont even ryhme
and still make you feel uneasy like the bubble guts
sticks and stones break bones but what i spit is like paper cuts
i ve been writing for over 2 years and never gave one fuck
and if i ever get stuck i quick fast hulk smash boulders
so i never get writers block
you think i had on 3 wist watches
the way i stay on time while
switch
swithcin my style
i use poetic license in my everyday speech
even though i dont really know what that means
i m actually quite stoopid
see im that type of poet who would rather convince you im dope than actually prove it

old shit but still relevant

The unthinkable happened
my ipod died...

forcing me to face my own thoughts
and the thought of this terrifies me
no longer able to escape old heartbreaks
in new break beats
to run and hide from my social life
behind drums and kicks
no more running from the past
things happening in the present
and bound to happen tomorrow
if I'm left to deal with my thoughts
i might not make it to see tomorrow
for the thoughts in my mind
are filled not with laughs
but full of sorrow
thoughts of my isolation and mistakes ive made
keep getting played and played
over and over in my mind
now when i try to sleep depression and regret
usually drowned out by the sounds of my mp3
are not ignored
but stronger than ever and staring right back at me
i try and tune my radio to tune them out
but its too late they got me in a sleeper
and that's all i want to do now is sleep
but at times like this
my only true wish is to escape this cold grasp of my own thoughts
the only way i could think to escape was to not think
just do what comes naturally
and gradually
the pen found its ways into my hand

my mind is like a burning building
and poetry is my (broken) fire escape

hello hydra

like the heads of the hydra
romove one sense to strengthen the survived

so i will send you an ode along with my eyes
and sit in the dark awaiting your reply
come to me so i may not listen
for before you arive i will have beatean my ear drums out of commision
let me feel your voice
touch your words
and hold your intentions

alas i did not see the back of your head
nor hear the door open or close
but smelt the odoar of deception
and so bitter is the taste of loneliness
i plug my nose and swallowed my tounge

like the heads of a hydra remove one
and strengthen those that survive
and so with all my being i felt pain.

just(us)

In between a gift and a burden you were presented with the present
you only asked for life and yet the world was forced upon your shoulders
before you could even organize your own thoughts
they were thinking for you
your opinion is non existent
you talk to hands that hit not listen
you are not heard
but how could you be
you haven’t yet spoken your first word
affection and abuse divided by a blurred line
the hand of a so-called lover comes darting out of a slurred line
so you replicate this type of affection
because that’s all you know.
that’s all WE know.
us.
the outkasts
Us.
the ones left behind
Us.
going nowhere with no were to go
us
the unwanted children


in between a gift and a burden we were presented with this fucked up present
I don’t know about you
but I don’t remember asking to be born
yet here we are with the world forced upon us
before we could even organize our own thoughts
they were thinking for us
our opinions are non-existent
we talk to hands that hit, not listen
we are never heard
how could we be
we are merely children yet to speak our first words.
they say the present is a gift
I just hope it came with a receipt

Fuck

relationships.

fin

i dont like this

hair of aphrodite
skin of nefertidi
eyes of madusa
thinking harder than plato
of ways i can seduce ya

composed by things of legend
your mythology is calling me
my Alalahe

her beauty is terrifying.

A Girl i saw in the laundry mat

i wonder
i wonder what she looks like with no make up on
what is she all about in the morning hours
is she still a sight to see
is she still with a demeanor so sweet
will she have the same eyes
or will they fade without being highlighted in turquoise
how long is her hair should she let it hang
is the back of her neck as soft as it appears
what changes will come to this canvas with the addition of tears
is it all a facade
is she of dreams
or of nightmares.

Ca ne fait rien

Im tired of saying im a poet,
And getting weird ass looks
I tell them I write poems
And they give me the dookie face
You know that face you make when you smell shit
Its like once I tell them im a poet they immediately imagine me half naked
In some forest
Dancing around trees like some woodland fairy
While writing poems about how green the leaves are
Its like I immediately get tagged as soft
Sensitive
Emotional
Weird
Which are in no way,
False
I am all of those things
And if you bust into my bedroom on any given Monday
you will most likely See me dancing around like a woodland fairy
Yes I am a poet!

soul

Out of the trumpet comes no music
Out of his trumpet comes his soul

He is unemployed he
lives to play
Plays to live
He plays to pay the light bill
When times are slow
And the bulbs don’t glow
He fumbles around in the dark
crawls into the corner
holding his heart
He plays his soul

His wife left
She said she needed a lifestyle
He was not providing
It wasn’t like he wasn’t trying
He never cheated
He wasn’t lying
Yet his loneliness
Is striving
His relationships
were dying
So as she walked out
He crawled to the corner of his apartment
Holding his heart
And out of the trumpet came no music
Out of his trumpet leaked his soul

A loud knock at the door
He sees through the peep hole
His land lord
Get your stuff and go
Leave before the clock slaps 12
But were do I go ?
Land lord tells him go to hell
And take that trumpet with you
We are all tired of the noise
And so he crawls to the edge of the bus stop
Holding hi heart
Out of the trumpet comes no alleged noise
Out of the trumpet comes no music
For all to hear
From his trumpet he presents his soul

when it rains
He shelters his heart in his jacket
Bundled up like his child
Yet the trumpet begins to rust

Always at the bus stop
Never on the bus
He waits
He waits for his ride home
And for now, he holds his rusty instrement
It may sound like just an old trumpet
But from his rusty heart pours is soul.

the way she moved..

... was beyond words.
which makes my job very hard, but i got to at least try..


rainfall footsteps
soft and explosive
droping with ferocity.

a face of stone
colored by pedals of flowers
concentration that could stand up to diamond cuts.

twists rolls pops
with intentions to hypnotize
seduce and paralyze.

engineers, the human body thier tools
turning years of evolution unto warm molding clay
muscle and bone presented as raw art.

i saw this girl in ross the other day...

Soft square shoulders
delicate blades
inticing ink

a quiet end

once upon a time
i was a slave to the minimum wage
i needed books for school
my budget couldn't afford a page
a gun in one hand
a uniform in the other
i would be lying to say
it would be hard to stray
to call in sick
and get money the ski mask way
be another stick up kid on the street
the nightmare of America
her own children
born in the mud beneath her feet
alas i punch in and slaved away
yet another day
aging a year every day
my hands raw
coming home with new burns
and old problems
and under my mattress
a new way to solve them
it calls to me while i sleep
intriguing how 5 pounds of steel
could change my tax bracket
without fail
i shake away its hold
and sell my self to a franchise
to sell french fries to the obese
when i know a vacant fridge awaits
but i know what can make it cease
no more clocking in
no more peace
the night comes as my cover
out to pray on dreams
a target
a quick plan
blue lights
red lights
a failed robbery
a vision of a cell
hell in the rear view mirror
the shedding of fear
a screaming bullet
a quiet end

HIM

Im him
The slave who broke into mastas tea room while he was out selling my mother in town
So to hell with creepin in the back
Run round
Murder that pretty little picture window in the front of the house
Plant the seeds of broken glass to breed disaster
and hope turmoil grows like weeds
On a path off destruction and nothing else
Until i felt the eyes of another
A house servant onlooking my work from a safe distance as usual
Ready to bury the hatchet
Deep in my least favorite uncles skull
Im pulled from my rage i hear horses at the front
The man who iwas so quick to kill now takes me to a Small room nearby to hide
Hatchet clutched tight
But There was no wAy to prepare for what was inside
In the corner stood
A box
wood wide and high
With teeth resembling an elephant tusk.
I touch
Than press down on its off white teeth
And amplified is a sound that has come to be a corner stone in my life
A grown mans scream
Backing away from this demon
And as i search for the orgins of the noise
I come to realize
The crimson blood of my brother
Flowing under the the closed door
Stuck in a trance of terror
I am paralyzed
So much so I barley noticed when they kicked the door down
I didnt even reach for my hatchet when the gun went of
My last memory is that of staring up from my pool of blood
At that foreign figure
Made of dark wood and ivory
Wondering to my self
What mysteries it must hold

I am him
the first black man to play a piano
I am the official soundtrack to the united snakes of America
I am the birth of jazz
Father of modern music

Orchestra

Donald trump
trumpin it
owning everything
rhythms
living in his empire

but

a revolution
to the beat of a revolution song
with hands and skins
the drummmmms
taking things over
with cold fists
is it
is it
too cold

ice cold froze by hailing of devilish keys
wail wail
wail away
sledge hammer fingers
light as feathers
push and press
while
the storm settles
while the storm weakens
all while the storm dies

all abandoned
but
but the heart
of
the
bass
the heart beat
continuously pumping
direction
control of chaos
now set afloat

will
live
live
to revive
the clouds
and bring the storm

no dollars too many dreams

With a dollar and a dream.
Holes in pockets
And bright eyes with good intentions
Laid sturdy in their sockets
Left the coop with no expectations
looking for adventure
Looking for a good story to tell
And I'd venture
To say I was alive
But something happened that night
I woke up with a dollar and a dream
Slept on the street with a spent dream and lost currency
There are no Happy endings in reality.

Dance

They dance.
and at first glance
you see them to be together as one.
and together they move. until the beat is decease
and song has been sung
and even after they continue to dance.
and in the average lifetime not many will get the chance to experience what they go through
to have the opportunity to dance.
and im not talking about your everyday tango
this is a tornado on the dance floor
a cyclone of emotions
a fucked up fandango
with movements so hot damn near setting off fire alarms
two beings passionately melting into each others arms
knowing all this
the two dancers throw caution to the wind while leaving their regrets at home continue their dance with faces of stone.
their blank faces allow their intertwined bodies to relay the messages
and all i wish to know is what the connection is.
for some time ive studied these dancers trying to find what it is that makes them continue to move
Is it the love of the dance or more simply, love
or is it possible love is some type of sophisticated dance because we all know it takes two to tango
and although arguable you cant fall in love with yourself
and as i sit tying to think
i look out my window see the two dancers on the street
forever dancing
never missing a stride always on beat
although they may stumble always remaining on four feet.
for that.
i envy those who dance
they live
cry
laugh
rejoice
and die
all while together
all while dancing
all while loving
so to this day
i sit in my room trying to teach myself the steps
all while trying to learn what love is
hoping i get the chance to one day dance

This is

just some shit

my mind

My mind
The stream of thoughts
Dictating my course of action
Runs thick
With drips of kindness
And compassion
Barreling towards a pit
Of uncertain passion
Fueled by the inconsistencies
Of outside influence
The setting blended
Into the present plots
What i see what i hear what i feel what i smell
Is foul
Is damned
My mind
Barreling towards a pit
Of uncertainty
Driven by my surroundings.

eye

they is infinitely
implicating ideas
of intricate inventiveness
but ignore your ignorance for a moment
and understand that this intimate illustration
of straight ill
integrates imitation more than anything else
ill advised illadelphia halflifes down icy cold
ibuprofen to intake the idea of imbeciles implying
and enforcing the idea of their identities as indited
royalty
if its your insecurity inflaming your intense idiotic ideas
the easy answer is you should cease to exist
the hard answer is i

what i am saying is
hip hop is lifestyle i live every damn day
and ill be damn to see the day
my style of life
has any thing to do with a fm radio

what im trying to say is
the only thing of value
my father left for me
i didnt sell was a run dmc casette
so since 12 ive been raising hell

what im trying to say is
before all the arab mooney busta was a leader
of my new school
plug one was head of the class
and kanye had just dropped out

what im tryin to say is
id sell my car for some headphones
ive got lyrics from biggies sucidal thought
tattooed on the inside of my bones
i eat vinyl and now im coughing poems

what im trying to say is
united hip hop heads aint nuthin
to fuck with
protect ya neck
we bringin the mutha fucking rukas

what im trying to say is fuck you

i am hip hop

i smile

i smile becausse when no one else is looking my shadow starts dancing
i smile because sometimes my left molar tells jokes to my k-9 s
and when i get tirred my feet really do bark like k-9s
each one of the curls on my head has its own personality
its a an all day 247 house party
some of them dance in wind
some stand straight up and recite poems
some lay way down becuse they caught a whiff of some of that smoke from last night
i smile because the things i write on my shoes are what ive heard them whisper in librarys
i smile because the left one named himself larry
i smile because when i unplug my head phones i can still hear music
i smile becuase now im old enough to do all those things i wasnt allowed to do as a child and i would swear one day i would do
like eat lunchables for breakfast
sit directly in front of the tv
and stay out past when the street lights come on.


i smile because when i look in the mirror my reflection is always crying
and my toes are always wondering if im just sitting wierd or if there finally dieng
i smile because well i dont really know why i smile but im going to keep on smiling because
im tired of the alternitive.