I like the way your name sounds,
Rolling off my tongue,
But mostly I'm in love,
With the way you say mine
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
The Garden Boy has eyes greener than the grass that will sometimes be the color of the dirt too
The Garden Boy reminds me of a distant galaxy because he is so close yet unreachable
The Garden Boy spends his time learning about the world and dreams of changing it
The Garden Boy met my eyes under the full moon and his parted lips were saying words that he never would
I wish The Garden Boys’ hands were welcoming to mine
The Garden Boy has a love he can’t admit
The Garden Boy is the garden boy because he reminds me of all the different flowers and the sunshine that blesses them and the sky that changes paintings every evening and he reminds me of the storms that he hates and the sunshine that he loves and the rain dripping from my eyes as I thought about how beautiful he was
The Garden Boy loves the world but I don’t think he loves me
The Garden Boy probably doesn’t have a garden
The Garden Boy is a poem of leaves turning orange as fall descends from the heavens
The Garden Boy told me he likes my hair but maybe he’s receiving wavelengths from a different star and my hair is red
But Garden Boy, I want us to be purple
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
fall in love with a boy
who makes the world spin a little slower,
but still holds onto your hands
as if life were his final dance
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
God help us, Imamu—stop playing the fool
as you babble unhinged in your kente hat.
Bebopping Mao is so very uncool;
what up wit dat ?
Flirtations with Castro (Fidel to the faithful)
and free Cuba Libres imbibed with the Beats
inflamed discontent when your verses turned wrathful
in the streets.
Predictable tirades where Whitey’s the foe,
attacking your hosts like an Afro/eccentric
gets old. It’s a stagnant unmusical show:
dull dialectic.
Who knows why the liberals that bankroll you love it?
Who cares what your most recent pseudonym is?
You old and you mad cause’ you can’t rise above it,
mired in the shizz.
Your lines are pure mannitol: dumbed-down *******
(The blow on the head by that riot-cop lingers!)
The syntax is whack in your ghetto refrain.
Snap fingers . . .
Still you wait for your war—or the Black Star-Liner . . .
Your rage was your royalty, paid in white money.
Your verse sought to give the right wing a dark shiner—
it’s not funny.
Insulting, belittling others more noble;
your legacy leaves nothing hopeful or witty
Just putrid black waters, the flow uncontrollable
under the city.
Inside of your Kabaa are yet many idols.
Your New Ark of verse did not save from the flood.
You mau-mau and bludgeon with words all your rivals
but draw no blood.
Lighten up, wise Imamu. Your age is soon closing.
You wrote for the stage and said some of it well.
But your verse has gone rotten and yields, decomposing,
a nasty smell.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
We take back our inner thoughts when we feel like something is not gonna happen.
We overly looked up from our past than seeing ourselves in the future
When sometimes chances are there we just reject it for the reason that we expect from more. But when the time comes we feel regret it at the last moment of our chances.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
Shall love be limited
To the mate of true soul
Are you so afraid
To just let go
Relax your heart
Control the beat
Fear not the reaper
Resolve your beast
The realm of all possibilities
Holds a constant flow
Through new days of uncertainty
In the benevolence of our role...
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC