I can let it grow on me but I can't keep anything off.
I can't keep clean.
The **** suckers had other plans anyway.

My guts are eroding.
I wrap myself in sheets and roll down the bank into the river.
Cold chemical baths for the sick and disorderly.

White noise money, millions  bet on a chance.
Escape the bad lighting and minimum wage.
Notice the disconnect between love and anything else.

It's cold crossing the bridge.
Even colder when empty eyes won't stop staring.
When I skinned my knee's everything didn't seem so bad.

But there you are, sitting on the curb laughing like a maniac.
I laugh too because this city never ate us whole.
It spit us out before it could even swallow.

What does a black kid who wants to rap write about well if he's from the suburbs he'll probably leave the pages white like the folks that where out.  

Since there is no poverty, gangs, or death to report on. I guess he'll sit in his two parent household and be put down cause that's his home, and try to figure out that why in order to be black does he have go through struggle, live on 64th and Sangamon Chicago that's just asking for trouble.

Why aren't happiness and good times associated with the black culture, instead we like it when we're known for stealing, killing and getting over. I guess it's why light skinned people want to claim different races, why dark skinned woman aren't beautiful because we don't like the color of there faces.  

I guess that's why Mike wanted to be white, why every black man woman and child believe that they have to fight, but naw not injustice and poverty, one another the same person you grew up calling your brother.

But what does it matter cause you don't hear my words. I'm just another black man from Richton Park Illinois so I remain unheard.

It's been a while since I've had skinned knees doctored and bandaged
But you've always been good and patching me up in other ways.
Lately I've been tripping over my feet and falling to my knees
I've been craving letting my veins unzip themselves like my favorite red sweater.
As it turns out, most of the things in my life that make me feel better, also make me feel worse.
You keep me sane but you make me crazier than anyone else.

Darker skinned breeds pale.
Those cold months are the worst. They say
“but you look so white”, the
insult
mixed breeds get. The sitting around,
lounging inside bleaches.
Indoors is to blame, something
surely created by whites to alter
the darker pigmented people. A created
space of normalcy, it requires upkeep
and a source from which to draw power.
Assimilate,
feel the fake light?
Satisfactory for who?
There is no greater trap.
You want confusion?
Step into a mixed breed’s mind.
The whole world becomes shades and I,
I am,
whatever the viewer wants, an in-between.
But winter,
So **** white,
She is the hardest.

effortless branch) cinnamon skinned lovers
crisp the night leaves(
winding path stricken moon spit
caving shadow light lady of white haloed perfections

we walk stepping on
cool drunk earth
i,ve uncoiled muscle wreathed limbs
to pluck your hollow cords; make a melody unmeasured

(in a death littered valley
i made a song of you)

what if everything were white
white kitty cats, white puppy dogs
all white picket fences with a shiny white sky
we all drive our white cars to white buildings
everyone has white hair atop white paper skin
the trees are white and birds are too
and I don't just mean white world
what if religion were white, politicians were white
no I do not mean skin color
there are people who wish to **** people that love another color
so what if everything were white, everyone the same
a **** replica of a replica
would we then still find ways to hate?

This is a poem about love
and sticking your ***** in a dove.
Getting married in a church
of Satan.

I went to dunkin donuts
to get some ******* donuts.
A black man yelled at me
so loud that it made me ***.

So I unzipped my pants
and put my ding-**** on a table
then said "beat that ******!"
and he started beating himself while smoking a black and mild with a KFC bucket in his arms full of cow turds.
(I HATE ******* POETRY)

Poetry is the language of love.
No wonder it's full of *******.
Lust is where it's at
when I finger bang your uncle's grandpa's cat.

Randomness is fun
especially when you do crack.
I still ******* hate poetry.
You can **** my 20 foot purple headed yogurt slinger full of tar.

I am Bill Clinton and I approve this message.

I’m never sure. it’s sad. I know.
I want to be honest.
sometimes I’m too honest, honestly,
and in the wrong way. the worst way.
I want to be good. good at something
anything, really. I don’t know what.
maybe I’d be a good barista
or a good waitress. I don’t know.
sushi chef maybe? is that even
something that I’d want to do?
I hate when people say they do
“computers”. That’s not even DOING
something. That’s just a noun.
Can I say I do “books”??
Is your job too complicated to
explain to simple old me?
I need to work on being logical
with my heart. I need to start
believing in chances. I have a
poet’s eye, so why can’t I have
her ever-breaking heart? her
softasskin soul? her longing for
cold winters and sunbright lemonaid
her love of love?
I have a bitter feel of love. it’s
twisted into a harsh hatred. It’s
eaten by doubt. It doesn’t smile,
it blushes, it hides. I need to
re-coax love into existence.
so that when it opens up, it
recreates the boundaries
of safety that I so crave.
I want to be the fearless poet
that Frost examines in his woods
I want the flawed ***-ful poet
that Bukowski loves to paint
I want the darkest raven-breasted poet
that Poe tearfully wrote
or I want to be my own poet,
lost in thick dusty second-hand
bookstores, full of soggy stories
too heavy sometimes
to re-tell.