Sometimes I create my own
Writer's block;
It sounds ****** up,
Dozens of us at any given
Moment
Genuinely searching for
Any single word at all,
And here I am,
Wishing my words away,
Creating every writer's
Nightmare
Simply because I'm a
*******
Coward,
Too scared to pick up
My fresh black ballpoint pen
And put it to my
Worn out notebook
Because I'm too
Scared to feel
The dark, painful,
Scary things I know
Will come in the
Free flow of my
Disturbing verses...
So yeah, I'm
That *******,
Creating writer's block
For myself
So I don't have to
Let it all go.

****, that's lame.

Forcing thoughts to spill on a white page is like taking an empty pen and exepcting ink to leak art onto a white canvas. I've never been good at putting my thoughts into words, you've never been good at listening to what I didn't say. We were open books read by blind men, and music being played for the deaf. Never enough to satisfy, but always enough to appreciate. You dipped your dreams in sugar glaze and fed it to me on a sword, while I was busy cutting off pieces of my own with the same blade. Sometimes it's less about the meaning of words, and more about the look in your eye that comes with the sentence. Sometimes its less about the silence and more about what's filling the air. Sometimes its less about me, and more about what I could've been.

Dreams of being
free literally.....

Not this *******
they breed, equality
planted with momentary
seeds at a time things may
seem beautiful but were destined
to lose our leaves

Buses and water fountains
don't mean **** to me, You
throw my brothers on tv for
for what God gave us naturally
to mostly benefit you so that
don't mean **** to me

Money.....
something my people aren't
use to seeing so you use
it to introduce a new form
of slavery.....

We bring
in the money
you own the
teams,I've never heard of
an owner being the
highlight of these kids
dreams.... Never witnessed
you be the reason for an arena's
sold out seating we serve as your
entertainment blinded by your
"rare" pocket feeding

unsegregated schooling.....
yet were granted those who's
declared least capable of
teaching..... I've encountered
way to many classroom instructors
who were incapable of
speaking....  

English, math and reading
subjects taught for our daily
needing yet every GYM instructor
perfect now tell me that's not
strategically planned breeding

Neighborhoods overcrowded
flooded with options for poor
consuming..... Neighborhoods over
crowded swarming with destructive
solutions for financial bleeding's
place two rabbits in a cage with
enough food for one feeding and
sooner or later you'll witness a
presentation of how survival earned
it's meaning

I love everybody,
never favored a particular
flesh concealing but it's proven
everyday day those who mimic
my complexion are constantly
victims of horrible dealings  

Amerikka

© 2014 viewtifulink

R . I . P trayvon martin
                mike brown  
               Eric garner And anyone else who has
been a victim to a hate crime

Everyone has a dream job.
As do I,
But mine is common,
And yet not.
Literature.
Novels.
Poems.
Writing; the scratch of
Pencil or pen on
Porcelain-white paper.
It calls to me,
My heart.
"Novelist, poet
Her works are
Great," is what
I want people to say, in
My name.
Not some silly
Amateur.
A professional.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
Shakespeare.
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue.
Oh, writing's in
My blood.
Not music or
Construction.
My hand curves
Around a writing
Utensil like
A lover's hand
Caressing their
Sweetheart's
*****.
I could write
Forever and ever,
Like an eternal heartbeat,
But every heart's
Gotta end,
As does every song,
And so does this
Poem. Until then,
Does the beat stop.

A judgemental, prideful and arrogant writer confines within his mind.

Writer
[noun]

someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.

Wondering how he got dealt this hand in life
I realized this was not a curse,
That the ones who get dealt the hand of strife
Are able to craft the most beautiful verse.