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