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Livi M Pearson Dec 2016
My father never called and said im sorry i miss you
Yeah love is hard but trying was truly the issue
Im not gonna lie i could cry but life wont give you a tissue
So i ****** it up
Being brave stuck like a suction cup
Laugh it off like i never gave a ****
My life was ***** but my moms was a mess
If others saw my struggle they would consider my life blessed
They saw people tumble and crumble for less
But the real ones always wish you the best

Heroine addicts follow streams under thin skin
Your slowly killing yourself again and again
Skipping lifes movie waiting for the credits to end
10 shots 20 cops lock one man in a pin
Thick bars with faded scars poetry without the paper and pen
The problem is that there is no help
Just many witnesses
Guilty to the soul who fails to show us his innocence
You didnt do the crime but blind minds cant see the differences
Yes we all sin like the ending of the book of genisis

People need to understand the struggle
Know that some people dont have the muscle to stand
No family to give him a hand
Distant relationships so far like earth to mars no stars to climb on
All alone dial the phone no ring tone
Shhh
Silence like dumpster babies
Mothers making deals with hades
Couldn't afford prescription ******
So you wait 9 months to take 9 seconds to get a garbage bag
Throw the baby away then run off to class
You dont wanna be late
Today a good lesson about the value of fate
Learn to own up to every single mistake
Ok your sorry well im sorry your late

There is a hussle in the struggle and its hard to recieve
That there are many different people who struggle with fees
Too many of them its like your dealing with flees
You need someone to bless you
But you forgotton to sneeze

Every body is losing grasp and keep on falling on knees
Tryna hide behind cover but there is no leaves on the trees
The hussle of a struggle is always hard to achieve
Only one savior can make all man truly believe
I havent posted anything in a very long time
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i just don't some things,
i don't understand that under the pretense
of writing very little
being able to write a rhyme is enough
to suggest that you're toying with
an art-form...
   personally? i don't know how i got here,
but right now that doesn't really matter.
the whiskey is cold and a cigarette is
only 10 minutes away, gone is the macho
strive to impersonate the Kray twins,
or in that line of thought: blue for boys
pink for girls,
why is the transgender movement happening?
erm... could it be because of
gender stereotyping?
   it probably has nothing to do with
annexing the words from St. Thomas' gospel,
it could really be a rebellion against
                 gender stereotyping...
out comes a woman dressed as a nun,
then out comes a woman dressed in a niqab....
  curtain-sellers! i knew it!
                 what's pajamas in punjabi?
     chuckles?    chack'ah chuck chittering?
**** me and a throng of sparrows, land ahoy!
what i don't get is that there's a science in poetry,
poetry for its lack of volume gets this leechy
science of itemisation, this vague anatomy...
i don't think i write for an anatomy,
i ****** well hope i don't write something
worth an anatomy... i basically write to give people
a feeling of eating sushi, or raw red meat...
    i entrust them with the notion that it's a narrative
that needs to be there between having a glass
of whiskey... i don't write with the hope of being
itemised and stripped bare by some English students
equating a metaphor with liver...
******* bog-standards... i really do not understand
this whole concern for a hussle-and-bussle
that surrounds poetry: you have a ******* pelican
taming the skies, why invite a Mongolian beehive
to fill in the blanks intended with "notes"?
     it's to do with the fact that you don't need to
strain your eyes, *******, it's not:
i write sparingly so you have to comment...
           why note the ****** crap from four words
when you're intended to sorta spread them out,
and feel them over a spectrum of a few days,
so that there's no synonymous-amgiguity ascribed
to them, which means you can act upon
deviating from the idealism of words thought,
and antonym them within the realism of words acted
upon...
        i just can't stand people mutilating poetry,
they're not even performing a postmortem surgery,
they're hacking at a stump of wood
    in a forest, when there are so many trees to be
looted...
               again the point... maybe the transgender
movement is due to the fact of gender-stereotyping?
blue boy, pink girl, salmon fading pink of shirts on
metrosexuals? hey, Sherlock! i'm not the answer!
   what i'm bothered about it the fact that
poetry attracts bothersome flies...
who feel a need to make poetry into prose:
economically speaking, yes prosaic literature is
worth the money, with more words in a chapter than
in a poetry collection.. how's your eyesight though?
    then there's this girl, a Joe Pachelbel (sorta),
and she does the worst thing imaginable to poetry,
the educated norm...
              the bothersome fly bit...
              it's just narration girl, it's just narration
too lazy to invent characters fake schizophrenia
          and say too many words that don't appear in
urban conversations about a ****** or a juicy mango...
and that's why i think people are put off poetry,
the fact that poetry is like this magical artefact that
might give you eternal youth... that you have to
scrutinise it so much that you almost get sick of it...
you couldn't even if you tried put a question of metaphor
into a journalistic entry...
                      so why put so much science into
an area of the humanities?
            where's the feeling part, and the part where you
have to create volume from poetry for it to compete
for an existence alongside prose?
    most prose works these days don't even deserve
a campfire anyway... in the same way that poetry shouldn't
really accept all this excess of narrative,
it's like people who read poetry are characters in
    a prose novel, they're asking for the part of
lynching the narrator into suggesting less ambiguity...
   in prose the narrator is almost too easily discredited
from playing chess, in poetry the chess pieces gain
consciousness that they're being moved and subsequently
rebel and ask too many questions...
          what the **** dragged me into this realm?
the question serves itself...
   and even donning a cravat or a boutique corset you
suggest not talking *****...
   then off the donning attire gets ripped,
   and it's heathen sprechen in onomatopoeia of
knocking on a door to open, a flower to open in spring,
a ***** to get juicy, and de Sade coming home.
                i say fiddle with the idea of a river...
  end this bogus fly-trap of people playing surgeons
with poems like they might play doctor with dolls...
                 it's getting annoying:
it's written sparingly for a reason, the blank spaces between
the words is not a prompt to comment and vandalise
the poem, which they do; pristine bourgeois? you'd
think, wouldn't you... graffiti on some urban slum wall,
a comment in a poetry book: same ****, different cover.
i never understood why they needed to say
so much about poetry in order to make it
economically viable to compete with prose custard,
     i just thought: poetry and photography are akin...
say much more than the photograph endorses
and you've just started blinking...
         which to the photograph in-itself means:
  look at another if your eyes are watering with
            peppery tears that itch; and another... and another...
and another.
Styles May 2014
Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross’em  it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best, rolling or rocking? Don't think about it, just relax. Use some muscle, the one between your legs. Hussle; ruffle and tussle, it’s like trying to make a puzzle fit; sometimes you gotta wiggle it a bit, a little bit.What’s wrong, you looked puzzled? You red, so into it. lights out; so intimate. Now try feeling between the lines, you have to focus a bit.  Forget what you read; and what's been said; you won’t go blind, it’s all in your head. The only time you should lose site, is when you re-sight this vision in your head; closed eyes, on your loveseat, sofa or bed. Just repeat it in your head, like Simon said. **** around and hit the right button, you might wet the bed.  My sign language tracing over your lips, repeating what I said.  First come, first serve; you can't be beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. See, you don’t need to see men, to succeed, you got me.So. take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time.Touch your fingertip, to your little tip, and grind- press down harder, yeah, that is it.. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind.  Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your *******, rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it; very specific.  Here's another  tip; curl your fingers, like a tongue would flick your upper lip - the thought alone should make you flip. Now your *******, soaking wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! Your heart will skip. Pace yourself, you can't cheat.  Sped up your hearts rate, to your beat. You might have left a note to yourself, but I’m the one that wrote it all over your sheets!
Rotating bodies, confusion of sound
Negative imagery holding us down
Social delusion, clearly constructed
Human condition, morals corrupted
Trapped in reaction, lawlessness, war
Dissatisfaction from bowels to core
Devils technology, strategy for
Human mythologies, urban folklore
Sick of psychology, counterfeit cure
Wicked theology robbing the poor
Scheme demonology mislead the pure
Strict and strategically, studying war
Light shown in darkness, image exposed
Few can see through the new emperor's clothes
Lustful this hussle turns humans to hoes
When the blind lead the blind
Just more trouble and woes
It's the mind that they chose
It's designed to stay closed
Standards of jokers, court just a logic
Sick looking cosmics, from schoolyards to college
Primitive man with civilised knowledge
System collapse and he still won't acknowledge
God is the saviour, studies behaviour
Trying to fix the mind that he gave ya
Stiff-necked scholars on prescription meds
Wishing their problems were all in their heads
Moral dilemma, pride is the root
Misguided from youth, heart divided from truth
Egyptians and Grecians, spiritually dead
Imperially led, by the gods in their head
Motives and thoughts
Industrial wealth
Global economy, in for itself
Heart full of madness, covered with kind
Pleasure designed to take over your mind
Furnished in godliness, painted in good
This talented priesthood got real saints misunderstood
While classes in government, set up the veil
And cultivate minds for more mythical tales
Typical Hollywood follies good girl
While vice and corruption take over the world
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Blind with the wickedness deep in your heart
Modern day wickedness is all you've been taught
Lied to your neighbours, so you get ahead
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
The blurred lines in my mind
have my thoughts playing on rewind,
like an old school mixtape
it took me forever to find
and all the songs play on shuffle,
each one a memory from a different day,
remembering the hussle
and all the things I couldn't say,
but I got every little part
of every tune
memorized to heart
and when I play them on repeat
from the start
I get lost in the tracks, fumbling,
checking out this road map
with no streets,
just valleys and hills
and when the beat gets faster,
I can feel the thrill
Aaron LaLux Apr 2019
Another prophet who got his top knocked off,
this system’s toxic thought we’d found hope but lost it,
Nipsey Hussle shot down outside his clothing store Marathon,
live and die in LA grow up only to get shot down on Slauson in Compton,

and the irony is that he was taken out,
in the same neighborhood he had invested in,
from Proud2Pay to AfroTech Nip was a Community Activist,
in a system of force fed poisons he was medicine,

and maybe that’s why he was martyred,
just like MLK Tupac and Marley,
this is all real life in living color,
life’s not a Game but this is The Documentary,

every word true,

I mean do you,
think it’s just a coincidence,
that Nip was murdered when,
it was announced he was about to come out with a film,

about Dr. Sebi,
the herbalist,
who was also possibly murdered when,
he went public with claims of curing AIDS and other illnesses,

nothing random about this act of violence,
it makes so much sense when you think about it,
nothing senseless in the message,
I mean seriously think about it,

MLK shot on 4/4 at 39,
NIP shot on 3/31 at age 33,
why do the most violent things happen,
to the brothers that preach the most peace,

it all makes sense everything adds up,
but most will probably dismiss this just as another conspiracy,
I mean I guess it doesn’t matter ‘cause nothing will bring Cuz back,
RIP NIP Rest in Peace Nipsey another brother gone to young at 33,

and it’s all so eery it’s creepy,
all the above evidence plus,
“Having enemies is a blessing.”,
was his last tweet,

as the words of his last sound sit in my ears as they ring,

“**** I wish my n!gga Fats was here,
how’d you die at 30 somethin’ after bangin’ all them years,
Grammy nominated in the sauna shedding tears,
all this money power fame and I can’t make you reappear.”…

RIP NIP

∆ LaLux ∆

LA 2019
Mark Mar 2020
Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg
I dreamed I was dying and goin’ to hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.

Last night I was shot and arrived at hiphop heaven.
And you know who met me at the big bling gates?
The original kings of da hood themselves, Run DMC.
They said to me, they said, “Bro, the Big Dude of the
hood up here, has told us to show you around the crib.
So come with us.
Now standing on da corner is some of your favourite homies.

“**** I was glad to see them, The Notorious B.I.G. and the maestro of rap Tupac Shakur.

I dreamed I was dead in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it was to have seen.

They introduced me to Snoop Dog, and they showed me the Ghetto of Fame with all the gold chains and number one hits up upon da wall.
Then they said, “Bro, walk this way, there are a few more hiphop stars, that I know you’re dying to meet, they’re hangin’ for you.
“There they were chillin’ by the curbside and staring down at me - Eminem and AKA MCA.

Bang, bang, bang, baaannggg

I met all my heroes right from the get go
**** what a privilege to have finally met
Then I asked them, who else do you think will join y’all, uh, say twenty five years from now?

They handed me a book of sheet music covered with graffiti.
They named it the Hood 4 Life Book.
In it, were many names and some were already highlighted in black texta.
I began to scan the pages and saw names such as, Dolla,
Pop Smoke, Juice WRLD, Nipsey Hussle, Easy-E, Lisa Lopes, Nate Dogg, Lil Peep, Jam Master Jay, J Dilla, Proof, Soulja Slim, Big Hawk, Prodigy, Camoflauge, Natina Reed, Charizma, Bloodshed, Big Bank Hank and  Dav E Crockett.

***???
Dav E Crockett?
Oh, well, that's when I woke up, and I'm sorry I did, because

I always dream I’d end up in hiphop heaven
Wow, what a dope sight it would be, y’all be knowin’ what I mean?
ioan pearce Mar 2010
wise old owl awoke one day
and studied human habits
blinkered, busy, bussling,
stressed out racing rabbits

ever chasing,always racing
never gaining, life of straining
predictable futures, and the source
who's the wiser? cart or horse?

he gazed at our system
thought whats the point....
of hussle and bussle
then rolled up a joint
Hannah Mar 2017
I gaze across the dry desert land.
It goes for miles,
nothing,
but long stretches of valleys,
tucked between mountain walls.
It's like being hidden in a dust bowl.
It's so hot,
and the traffic of cars
kicks up the desert dust,
clouding everything in sight,
but it is a place of refuge
for those seeking
a spiritual revelation.
I certainly understand
why these lands are sacred
to the Native Americans,
and to the indigenous
people of Mexico.
I have only spent
a few days here,
but I already feel more at peace,
free from the hussle,
and shackles of our society.  
I have been contemplating
my place in this world,
beneath the heat of the sun,
with the sand between my toes.
I can't help that my mind wanders.
I wonder who walked
these lands thousands of years ago,
that I am now trespassing on
with my pitched up tent,
and campfire.
What was there purpose?
Were they simply settled here,
or were they just walking
in search of something more?
Possibly for a rite of passage?
Traveling across the desert,
to commune with their
Gods and Goddesses.
These are the questions
that float through my mind,
as I meditate in the dry desert.
I wonder if these
thoughts are my own,
or if the spirits of the past
have placed them in my mind,
to rekindle the magic
that used to fill these lands.
A place now,
where the wonder of the desert
has become a mirage.
A place of beauty,
but barren of magic
to those who live with eyes closed.
~ I still see the magic.
Dougie Simps May 2016
Ugh
I could sit here and write to you for 12 more months
I could sharpen your image or speak to you just a lil more blunt
Oh you still in a funk?
But the music is off?
Post a picture with ya real intentions & captioned it "another loss"
Cause that's what you get when you lie to yaself
Eyeliner following a similar path, prideful lipgloss to stubborn to ask for help
But she'll ask for wealth
And say she was mistreated
Saying all men are the same and they intentions misleading...
Yeah?
Cause with me you were well treated, appreciated, serenaded and so perfect
Give it time and you'll start to see who's worth and who's worthless
****
My bad I lost my methods of being a gentleman
Swear mama would **** me
Don't take my emotional bars as a way to say you know the real me
Cause the real me is with those I was with back when I could get a quarter
The ones who would sell a few nickels and sip liquor like water
I feel like people always testing my progression
Tell me I'm doing well but still await my regression
X the only one who know how I deal with the pressure
Take my kindness for weakness and ya will feel my aggression
Haven't felt this fruitful since pac was here spitting lessons
"Only God can judge me" and slowly awaiting his blessings.
I remember being part of it all
I remember when I sat there hoping daddy would call
I remember seeing all my old friends start to randomly fall off
I remember walking with my headphones on and feeling so lost
Butter knife thoughts that could cut the cord
Are these malnourished feelings worth nurturing anymore?
If you had a million, tell me what could you afford?
Throw a couple singles to a broken woman just fix ya mood when ya bored
Think about
Where have you been?
Money don't buy happiness but I'll take the down payment
Building up my ego with Lincoln,
Grant and Franklin.
Talking that **** but still keep the mind so humble
Life is a marathon you bound to slip up and stumble
It's the recovery can you pick back up?
Just know when you give your all it may never be enough.
There is a difference between us and it's starting to show
Ive see you change outta no where and lose sight of the flow
You used to tell the real, the best stories and keep it a buck
No a days it's a whole lot of talking and you not giving a ****
But who am I to judge
I'll probably lost sight of the vision
Selective views from the top
On a success tunnel vision
Talk a lot but know none of it's safe
I got a few spots in this track that could quickly put you in your place
Mixed reviews like the boy drake
Tell me they want the crown but have no idea what it takes
This confused generation with they heads stuck in the wrong
You only know how to put in the work when all else goes wrong

"Now it's hussle time"

But imma close this out with shots no chaser
Every woman who's givin up Imma shout you out quick and thank ya
To those who couldn't stay in the car when I told you this was a long ride
Ya the same that'll come out when you see me in time
Motivation from some of the fam but I'll leave that for thought
Just know I'm thinking in way that's so far gone and my mind is meant to be lost.
Skilled with this pen the ink represents my direction
Left the past, started doing right, fell behind but never stopped moving forward...
Cause...
This here my direct message.

- gone
I'm back!
Marty Funkhouser Jan 2010
Nature gives less a
**** plus
Natures got the nuts
and doesnt care to lust
while you hussle and fuss.
Mark McIntosh Mar 2015
the soothing scent of mowing lawn
back strain from lifting & hauling
concrete stepping blocks
storing another direction.

wakeful night of dreams crowding
saying things I forget.
labour betrays the promise of a tired body
assisting sleep

fifteen milligrams paid in full
moisture in a drought
the rain holds off a little longer
despite various warnings

ringing something sounding unlike bells
white noise turns the colour of alarm
it's all alright
the mantra some magic
the mantra some magic

chopping rocks
it only takes that
chain gang number not behind bars
blackbirds squawk amongst seeds of grass

gathered symbols or innocent bystanders
white friends fly
proud with the span of their wings
catching the flow.

trip on a stone
the smallest pebble snagging a shoe
lace caught beneath
hesitant step.

hussle to train with luggage heaving
straining the zip, can never hold back
a time to be quiet &
rearrange words

the lessons we hear tuning into
the night
wheels roll back home
some more washing up
Kabelo Maverick Oct 2013
Work, money, Love and my Life...
****, honey, love and my wife?

...And players will tussle and strive lust,
while prayers hussle to arrive with us...

K.Penmanship
wordvango Feb 2015
KnobNess
By Finnius Dilkington


KnobNess is upon us

Altho my KnobNess is not nu

been working on my KnobNess for some time now

37 years & a few

My KnobNess is incomplete.

Incompetent

untrue

I am certain I have more KnobNess

More KnobNess

more than you

At times you'll see my KnobNess

At the luncheon table and such

I'll tell a joke & mess about

You'll laugh out of politeness

And

"not very much"

My KnobNess is like a steaming plastic packet

fresh ripped from the Microwave

a packet Inside a black plastic bag,

un clean and un true
Here's the the thing that thing I do

Make an insulting racket; Hussle,

Huzzah and harangue too

is my technique

is nothing new

KnobNess in my acting actions

Like the malevolent Sir Richard Chamberlain

fancy in some vile and delinquent role

Dolled up, ****** arresting

With grasping grabbing

Needful hands.

"Yon knobNess is thus"

"And thus"

(wrists bent)

And the dark black circles about his actors eyes

create no illusion

I remain at the centre of my KnobNess

Assured in my self believing belief

frequent feeling of my own genitals Is

no more,

no less

than any others.
This poem , I read back in May 2014, it is one of the few staying in my memory. TY Finnius
Mikayla Shaw Apr 2014
I
Brilliant red encased in morning dew
Effulgent in the dull bayou
All is silent in the tranquil air
So different from the hellish nightmare
Of the hussle and bussle of city life
Out here among the wildlife
A single spark of beauty
Absolutely beyond reality
The first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon
Breathless glamour, set to enliven
Yes, it is without question
The rose is the lucky one
II
The peace is but yet a guise
As thunder clouds form in the skies
For under those verdant covers
Lies several sneaky lovers
Oh what deceiving beauty to
Fool the mind in this dreary venue
For nothing is ever as it seems
Except, of course, in dreams
It draws in love mercilessly
So people simply say blankly
Yes, it is without question
The rose is the lucky one
III**
Rain drops glimmer on the leaves
As the sun is pulled down beyond the trees
The stars come out
And not a noise can be heard throughout
Will the rose ever shine as bright
As they who twinkle throughout the night
Its marvelous beauty is diminished
As the day is finished
The darkness whispers good night, a silent farewell
Silence ringing much like a bell
Upon the night falling,
Without a single warning,
The rose falls into an endless slumber
With the rise of the sun, it will no longer
Grow stronger
Death takes yet another toll
And as I go for my evening stroll
In my mind, there is but a lone question:
Is the rose the lucky one?
Timber Jan 2019
Sticky, molding floors,
Flies buzzing around the sink,
Not a single paper towel in sight.

The busy, hussle and bussle,
The shines and glares coming from everything in site,
No space,
No feeling,
No compassion.

You’re ears are bleeding
Mine are too
Freshman band *****
Honors is okay
Zani May 2018
Long time not sharing
The hussle of life glaring
Outshining my needs
Breeding boredom until
My eyes sore
Forget to see the Magic
Worse yet
My hands forget to share
The specks of joy
Staring at me in the face
Replaced by the sorrow vision
Displaced by the daily mission
Brushing my dreams aside
Gliding its way to the top priority
Where all else comes first
But my poetry
Has been asleep awhile
I try to express but the words
Are lost in this busy depression
Where I do not have time to feel
End of day reeling questions in mind
Like why and who am I again?
And again
And again
Yet I refrain from rhetorics
For the answers I find come out in rage
Page after page I could tear and burn
From all the frustration I feel as I work
But today
I will tear through the darkness
Harness it so I can love regardless
Of the pain in living as human
The truth is that I carry love
For all of you who share this truth and
I want you to know what it means
To me
When I gaze upon your soliloquies
They save me
Long time not caring it seems
So I will set the record straight:
Thank you for sharing and reading
My poetry mates
Zani will love you always
Not enough hours in the day, week, month or year. Hear me when I tell you how dear you are to me! Blessings to you poets ❤
Remember when it was easy
To try not to get caught
Never thinking of the consequences
Trading cigarettes for a 75 cents at school
Testing the hussle, that frown you hear about
Ditch class and smoke ****
Forget about the rules
Go lay under the stars
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
for those yet, imagining themselves alive...
i "kwa'ight"....
quiet... quite...
         acquitted...
if there's a rock to be lived
under:
i'll just be the rock... i once had a faint
notion that i was alive...
i had what might be congested in a summary:
a thirst... a willingness...
summary and all those
broken things... "things"...
within the enraged solo
projects of solipsists...
self-"betterment" up a cul
de sac... has... infiltrated my
breathing: crease... count in german:
eins zu zehn
jeden do dziesięć...
   kurwa jebana mać...
poor traffic... thd ******* blinkers are
on... a turning right done awry...
ein(s)... one... jeden...

eine ein eins jeden raz one
zwei dwa two
drei trzy three
vier cztery four
fünf pięć five
(pięść is a denotes a fist... a faust)
sechs sześć six
sieben siedem seven
acht osiem eight
neun dziewiendź nine (nein nein)
zehn dziesięć ten....

mind you...
be drop the pointless diacritical marker
on the iota... we'd see more "punctuation"
markers: where, otherwise: we wouldn't...

i congested myself with counting
in three languages to somehow...
ease-up...
ten? informant: he / him!
ta? informant: she... shimmy(?!) her's...
hisses of his'...

i will not bring the Iberians into
this discussion...
what's left, though? scraps
of language and language policing...
******* and bells...
twang... death to the ditto... blah blah:
bleach and mythological blondes...
scraps i do one job good for you...
most... better... will not trace lineage...
no smear...

          t"they" never think less of
the Yugoslavs... i'm tired of being a punching bag of a people...
of all "people": the Irish not 'ard enough to
challenge the English have to find...
come the Soviets come the Nazis simultaneously...
looks like integrating into English society
didn't allow me to forget...
this zunge doesn't erase the ******* blows...

rich, though... no surprise that the Reesh
would squander and throw their *******
potatoes like monkey **** at...
oh i guess: shelved "life"... peoples...
if i were living back among my brethren...
i don't think i'd be living at all...
what would i do with not being
agitated concerning... minor... qualms?

the ******* leprechauns... priests...
are less than the english...
but are somehow tier above the pollacks?
it's no offence when it sounds proper...
in a foreign babble...
dzida...

          i'd just ask the Eire son...
so... ahem... where's your ******* Celtic?
gone... non-existent?

aon, dhà, trì, ceithir...
   còig (what's wrong with co'ig?)
sia,
seachd, ochd... naoi... deich...
so the grapheme CH = X of greek origin...
a ******* hark?

the Irish like the ******* Arabs...
the British did this to: oos...
it's impossible to live with these
go-to-party "solipsists" to begin with...
integrate? into... or for what?
rot? that's a-plenty...
but when some spaghetti monsters
and those potato jargon-fiddlers start
their usual **** about a fellow
european people...

it's not like the Croats or the Serbs are
ever mentioned...
they vent to h'america and youz zee...
zese irish and italliano guinnea pig-me-ups...
kwoss-eyed... you know...
best bitterest better...
inbreeding... takes a chunk of coal...
chalk and cheddar...
mustard...

  inbreeding mentality... superiority complexes...
no reimagines parmesan cheese like
it's not... shredding... old skin
off of heels...
talk stinkiny witchy with a missing R...
this massive ******* gloat of "riddle"...
that suppose: it's also a man...

       while the world... "also" happens...
these little: belittling interferences...
as if we were all supposed to be crowned kings
or queens... it's not that i'm even elevated
above these concerns...
but that i must have them...
must: if i were a king... i most probably wouldn't
even entertain the sense of hearing
on their existence!

in a society of sociopaths and solipsists...
a massive get together
of protest happens once in a while...
i get drunk and dump ****** words
onto paper...
i'm not alone in this "adventure":
yet i'm beginning to be...
more and more sorry for having
such... indigestions to sorrow over...
moral relativism is out
in the words of the choicest
of the choiciest...
   i'm looking for something beside
the superlative adjective: choicest...
the diminutive "concern"...

which doesn't exist in english...
and i can't exactly introduce it using my:
mutterzunge either...
correct spelling?
look at it... choiciest vs. choicest...
the most most choosey...
to pick of calculus exponentially incremental
details of observable shifts...
the exponential aspect of detail...

how many of the Irish still speak
their Gaelic...
apparently there's a Scotch version
of the tongue...
but... the Scots will not speak it...
completely submerged in their union...
they'll just exfoliate in how distinct
they are from a Loon'don'er
speaking the same language...
you could probably rewrite trainspotting
using that linguistic language
embedded in the dictionary
of:

   how i met your mother, the mute...
/ (haʊ) /
       / (aɪ) /
                 / (mɛt) /
               / (jʊəp) /
                               / (ˈmʌðə) /,
                        / (ðə) /          / (mjuːt) /

i wonder... and what if we started writing
like this? proper... phonetically...
like linguists?
the side note of /(x)/ though...

the written word is doubly ambiguous...
to the point of no return concerning
the sufficiency of its practicality of use...

ʃeɪk  ænd
                ˈʃætə...

if i had the time and *******' worth of
writing a poo'em like a linguist...
if i had more love for the Irish...
sowwy... all love spent on the Scots...
from these Isles at least...

sheikh who? shake your: *****?
that's ******* fwank zapp'ah...
      
but it's not that... i have qualms with
the Irish over the stature and seriousness
when occupying the "underground"...
i won't rap: god forbid i...
"**** someone": my catchphrase
wouldn't be:

allahu akhbar... it would be that teutonic chant
of: gott! mit! uns!
if that Norwegian hyper-smart terroroist
chanted those words...
what words? these words:
gott! mit uns!

   but around these isels...
you'd think there might be a sense of solidarity...
among the catholic irish and the
catholic poles...
but no... tępy ajrysz...
  blunt-irishman...
                  one side arguing for the other sides
dislodging of "i.q."...
same with those spaghetti swindlers...
the...

mind you... ****** is not a racial slur...
it's actually better to denote a pole a ******
since... not kinh john: lackland...
the whole hiss-tow-stowwy...
i'm not pole: positioned...
i'm not...

    divorced from "my" people:
and the "mother" land...
                  Warsaw the last great end-venture...
keeping it up...
mawa: little old gone...
         in the hunch fabric of
lessening the diaspora approach...
you don't think i mind the missing links...
when there's a collected agenda for the purpose
of a purge of the intelligensia...
now... because only the Jewry suffered
a historical lineage of tonguies
towing complaints....

         **** it: the russian sayingly... newly invented:
**** me?! ******* too!
but in the english realm who's the lesser
******* among the polacks and the irish?
who's less gingerbreadman?
my side... most probably...
how will we ever let the 20th century become
past?
oh **** me... we will need another
war... but chances of that are...
sort-of-slim...

             no? it might begin with:
bypassing loan-words...
and how self-help gurus and famous psychologists
refrain from infiltrating lost hybrids of
focus, that there might be a clearaance to
discover society outside the realm of pop!
saavvy?
i don't like this...
psychological testimony of:
what's an alpha male?
not me... what's a beta male?
not me... what's a malaise?
what's an omega man?
everything that an alpha male is...
in that... there's an antonymous discharge
of needs... requests...
demands...

how many Irish still speak their...
diego / alfonso magic "whisker" ****?
that ******* Gaelic?
so much for aardvark "typo" in Scotch...
because it just so happens...
you speak an over exfoliation of lettering...
the aesthetically bogus: claim of...
no... no "originality":
i'm not even going to bother the higher
tier of diacritical markers to
instigate "something"...

but this whole: i'm a lesser "european" when
it doesn't suffice in north american parlance...
i'm sort of... em.... ******* bothered?
history seems to be a lesson
in teasing small-**** and the infinite
summary of infancy... last time i heard...
because the Mongols never made it to... "x"...
because the Turks never had ownership of Vienna...
because it took both the Nazis and the Soviets
to make me bow...
in England? the invention of snooker...
tennis... football... rugby...
bored people... obviously...

how: else: woudln't you have capacity...
need... to invent so many coliseum...
distractions to mind: and take seriously...
if you knew: you were an island dwelling folk...
and you staged your pride in not being
invade-prone...
a bit like the whole of east London's
pakistani-land...

wake up 40 years from now... from...
little bengali land...
the Pakistani grooming gangs of the supposed...
while i'm getting more and more irrritated
by paying for ***...
having Bulgarian ****** pretending to be
Romanian....
you see the grit in my use of teeth that aare never used to
nibble and conjure...
a "drying of bones"?

i will complain about the Irish as i will about the
tail-tan'ohs...
******* spaghetti slurppers...
we of the same European origins and the same
brain-drain... because the anglo-saxons
fiddled out a mechanism for...
a "coming together"... of...
a people... just like germany was confederated...
into a federality...
wow!

  the pope receding... on paper...
the Irish make complaints against the Polacks...
the Irish demean the Polacks...
nice nice... here's to me equipping myself with
Haitian "nouns"...
you, *******... ginger: knuckle-fiddle-numb...*****!
what Celt wishes himself to have
a Cyrillic ancestry?! almost all...

have your little i.r.a. memento...
       i'm only concerned about
a pomeranian, conrad... quest...
aren't the czechs / hungarians locked into
that... posit of being: without an access to
a "window"... hardly... that the baltic...
already is... Samaritan....

porsch monkey: among the slurrs... "poet"...
pshek in... denotative lingo...
it's a: thank you...
i call you worse:
    karot... burak... syberik....

thankful though: it's hardly a slur...
king John was known as lackland...
given the shrinking of the Angevin empire...
thus "we"... shrunk to the duchy of warsaw:
a satellite of Napoleon's ambitions...
then the Warsaw Pact...
pandering to the Bolsheviks...
blah blah: now more pandering to
woke ha-ha-h'americanacancan...
the mythological blonde: always on my mind...

the first words in my language
they managed to speak and they somehow managed to
call it a slurr... and polish: paul-leash isn't?
pole position, heading north?

say strawberry in ******?
TRU-S-KAWKA...
     paul's on a leash of nibbling on the quarters
and halves of would be barons of pandemonium...
we were teenagers once...
and once upon in an Ilford mall...
we bought compact disks...
rival schools... fugazi...
coal chamber's dark days...

  those where somewhat architecture days,
though...
you can't make this **** up...
you probably have had to live it, sort of.

- otherwise who can't forget the flight of the Jewry
from the area...
once there was a makeshift synagogue on
Coventry Rd.,
now there's a 7th day evangelical war band
gathering pulpit... source...
i was expecting a mosque: in all honesty...
it's a common suggestion:

now first comes the flight of the Jewry...
the whites are somehow 2nd...
but as i explained to my mother today...
i feel sick in a monochromatic...
homogeneous society...
i went to Cheltenham once...
to hussle my own self-published book...
i felt ill seeing so little minority
representation...
it's not like i'm brainwashed...
but among these minorities in Loon-dune
i'm a ******...
back in Warsaw i'm a feral animal...
among "my people" i'm zero-punkt-zero-nic...

the vagabonds of the world decide to congregate
in Loon'don... for some reason: ulterior or
altogether "other"...
the world has congregated:
is this still about the English having their
nationhood infringed?
perhaps from a perspective
of the Midlands... Birmingham...
but over 'ere...

funny that... i live in England...
but i probably interacted with more Irish
and more Scots than the supposedly
demographically first...
i probably encountered more Pakistanis too...

so what's the difference between
a Samaritan and a Sarmatian?
you're running? i thought i ran...
i might run... who's running?
is it raining?
is that... ****'ite iconoclasm?
sign me up...
            
but living among the Irish who are
not living in Ireland...
a tired old bunch... sometimes...
it's hard to fathom their identity crisis
since a whole swab of them
spoke a zilch of Gaelic...
it's like with these over-impressed
succcess stories of "integration"
from olive-pound land /
****** copper...

the parents want to integrate...
that **** backfires...
the grandson retains the tongue
to his grandma to speak
back to her her native...
yet his... "in-between"... "integrational english"
becomes a sick joke: stereotype...
almost a cul de sac accent...
the sort that has to breathe into a phrase:

oi oi! bown and bwead!
  em... bone and bread?
how does that work?
i guess it must work "miracles" from places
where the ingestion of gelatin is
foreign... transcending "foreign":
too alien to compose...

yes... detailing the promises of pork, pig...
the most economically sound
animal: beside the hoofs...
you can utilise almost... "almost": all of it...
one way of the other...
an animal that can never be a waste:
unless you're into dabbling into a cannibalistic diet...
plus... lamb... lamb: *******: stinks...
the aged lamb...
plus... how would you herd pigs...
pigs aren't herded...
it's a theological anger at...
camel-jockeys being unable to... harvest
the only potential of farm-food... via the pig...
pigs aren't herded:
i've only heard of a herd of pigs
and that's when there came a time
to treat a trough like an array of teats when
the porkies were 'ung...
is it a despised animal?
a despised animal because:
and the devil reimagined himself as a pig?

so god looks like a mythological blonde...
the devil looks like a piggish minotaur...
why this demise of pig?
why this gratification in the islamic mirror
of words looking accessible: i.e. dog | god...
my all mighty: allah: blah-lah...
fork in the road: are we 'appy... "now"?

but when you live among the diaspora of the Irish...
you'd sort of suppose... what's the gaelic for green?
now that the internet is here...
i can find out for myself...

why demean the pig? was the pig created by
the ******* devil?
or is this one of those Abrahamic ploy-toys...
rigidity structures...
to leave you surrendered...
go against anything else: beside the pig...
it's such an economic model, creature...
you can utilise almost all of it...

not all of us were born Afghan sheep
herders... savvy?
that eating pork is somehow signature
of inbreeding and s schizoid tinture...
wh'ah?! i lost the TAU along the way...
o.k.?!

it's a waste of time having arguments
with... oh forget: rag-muffin'...
inbreds... i wass thinking about ***...
i picked a spot... Rotherham...
Pakistani grooming gangs...
oh... right... here's a lollipop... here's some dosh...
i'll get a hard-on with a girl who didn't mature
into prostitution wtih a crack-******* 'abbit...

chances of me ******* low i.q. is like
zilch then? i imagine the tirades...
the knife-insinuations...
**** a barrister: **** for life...
settle down: solve **** concerninng:
immmovaable objects:
the sun still has "egotism" to rise
and call it tomorrow...
and her ******* own too: to boot...
imagine that!

why go after the pork 'n' pie?
why pet a dog?
why pet a cat?
     i've already mentioned...
sometimes lamb: just stinks...
lamb kidneys?
STINK... SCHTINK!
but you also can't keep pigs
in an environemnt where you also use
camels instead of horses... no?
no one is talking about this...
because... it's probably too obvious to have
to stress this ******* argument....

came the Ottomans... the Mongols...
the Soviets for a while...
came the Nazis...
why weren't we the people who championed
each other at snooker...
why didn't we invent football...
tennis... cricket...
rugby... i don't want to blame the English
for their race...
but they have been privileged in:
intra-"whiteness" terminology...

what English soldier ever stood ground
on ****** soil?
i've heard of ****** pilots having dog fights
for the battle of Britain...
how the enigma machine was not merely
the work of Turning...
etc. etc.
gravesend: i'm here reduced to "biasing"...
yet i'm giggling at the remote prospect
of "gravity"...

i have clues to concern myself over...
ownership...
          a hierarchy of a cascade...
time follows time...
this solo project of "individuality"
was never going to... "work"...

pending...

   connlach dearg...

    but the welsh still speak welsh... no?
i guess that Carlsbeg moment of:
probably the best'ly integrated people in
the world... the Welsh are...
they still exfoliate in having a punching bag
of their tow-tongue...
unlike that most, supposed... oppressed people
of the... anglophonic world affair...
the Reesh that speak no ditto of Gaelic...

who are, you, you people?!
Char Blackmon Sep 2019
Don’t worry I got me
I got ice all in my veins
I promise I wouldn’t change
Ur hussle is not the same
got HUSTLE branded in my name
I’m eating from the grave

Before anyone ever knew my name
I was destined for great
As the black crows sing
Let’s my pharaohs free
For justice
What’s the cost for your peace
Will all HELL from ole LIBERTY
I ain’t never been free
My shackles still clinks on me
With old souls
We all gone see

Yeah time apart
I’ve missed you
But I’ve learned lessons
And watched pure love
Shine through

Every silent cry
I reached out to wipe
As I tossed and turn
Throughout each night
Praying to Yasda
For another night
Feel that vibe
Frequency just right
As I open my eyes
Panting
Drowning in sweat
One lonely *** night
Just another cold side
Of the bed
Forced fielding my life
Those 3 words that you said
I hold so dear
Please don’t give up this fight
Unspoken words


Our third eye shows us vision
But with the lack of our own religion
How could we ever be called free

That’s just a fact that causes fiction
A whole big contradiction
But u all sure gone see
When hands unfold
Just call it a monopoly sceam
So what does that mean
I got u
Hell yeah u got me
As our souls speak
With no words
How could anyone compete
All the voices in our head
Doubts we shares
Hold my hand
Close our eyes
Mix our colors from within
#black&beautiful
Babatunde Raimi May 2020
Dem say we no go blow
With the line of thought wey we dey tow
Where dem dey when water we dey flow?
Come enter Coconut on the low

Sometimes alarm dey tear
But my brother, make you no fear
If you believe and throway every despair
"Oluwa" go turn your hussle to flair

You fit dey push barrow or do barber today
People go soon gather to celebrate you one day
If it no be like a weekday
But na sure bet say na someday

We fit no look like am today
Dangote start with sweet for him day
Don Jazzy do security for the way
And all of dem don blow today

Kpomkpi, las las we go dey alright
Just make sure say you hussle right
One day you sef go blow enter flight
Come join the billionaires dey alright

But when you don reach your prime
No forget say you too first do the time
Before everything come start to rhyme
Make you show love to your goons for flexitime
Na by like that you go take sustain am for lifetime
Gods1son May 2019
Let's appreciate people while they're alive
After Nipsey Hussle (artist) was gone,
we started calling him King
I've seen this happen too many times

Let's take care of our old parents
while they're still around
Instead of blowing all our money
on their funeral

Let's tell people what they mean to us
And not wait till they depart from us
Let them reap their praises
while still here on earth
It will definitely gladden their heart.
Cyclone Dec 2019
Trying to make the best out of sticky situations, see my concentrations stationed on the new things trying to **** this same rotation, we had relations but our differences are starting to come through, got some new priorities, number one, I'm gonna stay true, so they can't sue, them right wing motherfuckas try to **** your hussle, see you at the top of your peak and then they bring the struggle, on your bubble, ****, now what is this they got me in, really they your enemies but pretend to be like they your friend, but still it's not the end, study what I gotta do, can't look like another statistic, I work for me and you, getting through, hard but can't regard myself to face the basics, for 18 years I've lived that way and came up contemplating, it's vacant space here there ain't no opportunities, ambition just fuels my vision even if there's scrutiny involved, revolve around the true facts and few cats, don't know where it will lead me to but still I'll bring the proof back, that things done got better after this letter comes where you at, so once I get home it's gon be on brother true that.
Ghosts, and shadows
From the quiet solitude
Of music, and poetry
To elsewhere
Where the hussle, and bussle
Cheer, and laughter
Of a busy bar
Vibrant, and alive
Delaying
The silent death
Currently residing
Within my soul
Which i can try to allay
For at least another day
Tomorrow never comes
Unless i let it
Meanwhile
I shall drift off
Into another portal
Another parallel world
An alternative universe
And see where
The wormholes of destiny
Take me
Perhaps
I'll end up
On that strange
Surreal planet
Called Earth

by Jemia
Cyclone Dec 2019
I'm a beast, in this release, I got peace, bringing new beats to the streets.. so when the people peep the pieces, peep the pieces people!, a piece of me gives you peace of mind, never going hungry, keep me on repeat, piecing me together, just complete the puzzle, people will compete, will you keep your hussle?, cause the struggle will continue when the people lose their mind being selfish, people prove they're helpless to each other, I keep it color concious cause these color commentators keep the commentary colorful and graphic.. but our people keep it black and white, why we need it grey?, guess they're tired of the truth, so the lies kept us straight on tract for contact through combat, comrades turning through the crack contact..and my contacts never believe, so I keep em out of contact, put it in the context, keep it as a contract- cause we never will contract if we counteract, can I get a hand-clap please?!!, wonder why those high-fives brought me to my knees, now I hit em with a two-piece, just to keep it g- but they keep a tab on me- tell my fans piece.. got love past streets to the og's, and the homies seeking release- in this release, I got peace.

— The End —