Stop trying to waste your time, analyzing their lies.
It will leave you in a straight- suit: Suited, ready to die.
That's why you being real, is the only real hope,
Real has at, really staying alive.
So don't let them **** your vibe.
The art needs your craft to survive.
These characters needing your mind,
The sheets are feinding for you lines.
These rhythms need your rhymes.
The game needs your heart;
So the art form will be loved until the end of its time.
I need the real thing;
Purest of its kind,
Coming straight from the heart
Spoken from the mind
With real penmenship; word smiths-
Sharper than a thin line.
Quick witted; Stanzas that
Stand, hand-in-hand with mine.
Inspired by emotion; immortalized;
within lines. Talent is a gift;
Being gifted is a prize - and experience never lies.

their silky fur gleams
under the shiny moonlight
as they howl at dawn

Alone in his dark apartment
black dog asleep
the sound of children playing
in the street outside his window-
children of color, his housekeeper says,
not quite seeing the distinction
only hearing happy voices-
an old jazz number on the radio
as he stands and dances slowly
with his cane tap, tap, tapping
to the beat and dreaming of a girl
he once read about named Helen
in a book of braille.

r ~ 6/6/14

Peering through a wasp's wing
at shadows on the wall
Hear the whispered whimper
echo down the hall
Glass thump of bone and feathers
against the bedroom window
Motes of darkness floating
to air a moldy winnow
Creak of standing knees
rise in opioid haze
To wander past the shadows
and sniff of death's bouquets.

r ~ 6/11/14