"hustles" poems
Behind the eight ball
she sits.
Resigned.
From her pimp's
leash,
she's lead.
Deadweight, she feels
his ways and ills,
like cattle, that's branded.
Best she hustles,
or be backhanded.
Once molded,
she learns to light up
Big Daddy's cigar
and bring him his pie loaded.
More cabbage to fill his gold baggage.
Sometimes he spares a small leaf for her.
Though times she short, his fist takes sport.
And every night
she plays for the band
of her john's,
singing their song,
while a thousand ****** of light
inches along all wrong.
The nameless, faceless and most relentless
getting their fill.
A flower in her wails loves not fear.
However, Big Daddy's eyes are always near.
She knows better than to run
past the pasture gates
onto verdant fields,
free as a bird,
without a home, money or vocation
and ever so fearful of Big Daddy's gun.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
As she remembers those first tears.
A Big Daddy's indoctrination.
It started off on social media,
a whim
a fantasy went wrong.
Three nights her body violated,
Big Daddy's cavalry,
descending on her picnic,
wax and whips,
a thousand ****** of might,
and the scream of the night.
Coldcocked.
Say hello to the new girl on the block.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
Her youth robbed as the days morph into years.
Like a blur.
The guise, the lure, the drugs, the fear.
The trap.
Eighteen young became twenty-four old.
A lost puppy to her folks back home.
And every lost night
she struts her Prada dress a little higher
Big Daddy has a buyer.
Logan Robertson
7/27/2018
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
dented but not broken
in the demon dark
the deep chasms
of the wilderness
and the forgotten recess
silence from tender slumber
has awoken
the synergy of temptations
on their merry dance
sip divines peach nectar
the naked flesh and heaving chest
unleash thy sporadic vital spark
the impressed intent
of thy chosen scent
fuels the interactive nodes
neon infused electronic spasms
that echo in the dark
a subtle jowl in latent jest
as twilights nimble fingers
unbutton what remains of carefree days
and the fallen angels
with such sweet caress
to touch the mystic
unfurl the arc of your rainbow
and shine your rays
on cobbled memories
of Paris in the rain
and Tokyo Blue
hustles in the backstreets aroma
blow the cobwebs a gentle kiss
on days like this
left unchecked and laid to rest
gathered in momentums voice
and uttered as a sensual breath
the nakedness of emotion
the arcane interventions
should not be left to fade
to fill the empty space
they call the void
these technicolour moments
we've made
stumble on the waves
the fragrances of youth etched
in unedited stop motion
the contours of discovery
sparkle in the ether
the azure eyes
and the open arms
of the ocean
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
Lee was posted up in in usual spot
back by the stacks,
with his phone on life support.
Its umbilical cord was knotted up like a nest,
and held together by electrical tape.
It sat next to his vape
box and a stack of books
about the GED, twenty-fist century
side hustles and back issues of Ebony.
People come in and out of the library
and everyone says hi to Lee,
He is the man to see,
He asks about their lives and gives sage advice –
How you been, my man?
How’s the kids doin’, girl?
How’s married life treatin’ you, my dude?
My man, you gotta do this.
Babygirl, look into that.
Don’t wear your hat like that,
Boy, ya look silly.
Lee lives in a van
that he parks nearby
so he can job-hunt on the free wifi
even when the place is closed.
If you feel sorry for me, don’t
says Lee
I’m the freest now I’ll ever be,
so, don’t you dare take pity on me
I’m doing all I can do,
being all I can be.
Everything’s temporary.
Tomorrow I could be you,
you could be me
we’re just one bad day,
one scratch-off lottery ticket away
from swapping places, my man.
Yeah, I live in that van
parked outside the library
but if you think I’m sad,
you’re thinking wrong,
Won’t see me moping, or doping
floating along
you won’t see me frowning,
or drowning,
singing a sad song.
I’m happy with all that I got
who wouldn’t wanna be in my spot,
I’m The King
of the Library Parking Lot.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 1:17 PM UTC
Black Girl
Black is beautiful shouldn't be anything new to you I know TV's confusing you but you need to just think it through, lightskin dark skin every shade of sister in between you're all beautiful women playing for the same team. Your hair is perfect ***** natural and curly blonde hair and blue eyes don't make you anymore girly. Enough with TV's fraud me and my squad out here looking for our very own Felicia Rashad. Shout out to Disney for making a black princess who didn't rep our women at all. I'm just looking for Nefertiti an African Queen a woman who's skin is like coffee love like caffeine who's mind is sharp and focused on that green but does it all for the family her day one team dog that's my dream, a women who cooks like like my grand mama and hustles harder than than Mrs. Obama. Black butterfly your skies the limit lift your spirit against the malicious avaricious ignorance. The world is spiteful and stupid you're all beautiful that's can't be disputed, be proud of your eyes and hair be proud every morning you wake up and take a breath of fresh air be proud for every test you ace be proud of that beautiful skin stretched over that beautiful face.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
we took the long way
to Hadley and MacFadden, goin' about twenty-five in twenty-six ways...
twelve sheets to the wind at a cosmic chili banquet. we wove through the tambourines and headlights -
cruising through the pinch in the grid, on the Eastside. where Margret hustles feathers from very still pigeons, and Mosley, that little runt Mosley conquered Connie Haskel's Willow Tree in the backyard.
we were coming up on something special in our Hometown
but we were low on gas, and had just bought Beer.
this scenario was on repeat. night after night in the sultry debauch of a languid stroll in a couch rocket.
glaring at the skirts on Perkins and 5th, that eat seaweed and cough drops.
they're so hot you just wanna drive a better car.
we used to park -
at Todd's Mom's and walk to the Slaughtered Hog and order a rack O' ribs and drink moonshine, smokin' that **** and sitting next to ****** jockeys in jogging suits and headbands that say " i sweat profusely, when I want too. "
And Carmen What'sHerName? used to get our table 'cause i figured out the location of her section.
she would smile and bring pecan pie
and flash those eyes that said " i'm off in an hour " . we sang to Muzak - and
left our To-Go Boxes at the table; stumbling through the lot
fumbling for the keys to the TARDIS.
and thinking about Carmen.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
I HEARD a woman's lips
Speaking to a companion
Say these words:
"A woman what hustles
Never keeps nothin'
For all her hustlin'.
Somebody always gets
What she goes on the street for.
If it ain't a ****
It's a bull what gets it.
I been hustlin' now
Till I ain't much good any more.
I got nothin' to show for it.
Some man got it all,
Every night's hustlin' I ever did."
1.6k
flower girl and jackhammer,
street worker, cigarette lighter,
desolation in death,
exhaustion in life, you can buy your desire for just a
noisy day
nowadays
he shoves and sells
and hustles about
and buries his grimy hand in his
hot pockets
hot hot dusty hell
There's a faceless woman eating helplessness
turn around to see fight
no fight in anyone's eyes
restless and old
and worn, like a worm
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Honey-flowing rivulets of jazz-beaten syncope,
Trumpets blowing smoke across the room,
‘Curveball’ Sammy hustles bass behind the bar,
Snares his songbird in a played back loop.
Harlem shufflers work the floor, breaking safe,
Clave rhythm scufflers with a New York twist,
Black keys write with borrowed brass on iv’ry walls,
Pick the lock on a swelt’ring southern riff.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 10:39 PM UTC
Day and night his field he plows.
Timely his good seeds he sows
In career and business and family.
He sweats and drains his muscles
Away. In a hurry he always hustles
Here and there to procure prosperity;
Yet, no profit upon his dear investment
In time and energy. No achievement
Great to show. He thus wonders aloud
To self: "What in life be wrong with me?
For my world lacks rhyme and rhythm
Of success." Soon his heart says, ''Proud
Man, plain is the answer. Be not confused.
Seeing Divine Guidance you have refused,
God also has let you alone. By power
Is not breakthrough! Yield to the Lord
Thy soul first; the wisdom in his Word
Heed - the direction to a life proper.''
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
Hist? . . .
Through the corridor's echoes,
Louder and nearer
Comes a great shuffling of feet.
Quick, every one of you,
Strighten your quilts, and be decent!
Here's the Professor.
In he comes first
With the bright look we know,
From the broad, white brows the kind eyes
Soothing yet nerving you. Here at his elbow,
White-capped, white-aproned, the Nurse,
Towel on arm and her inkstand
Fretful with quills.
Here in the ruck, anyhow,
Surging along,
Louts, duffers, exquisites, students, and prigs--
Whiskers and foreheads, scarf-pins and spectacles--
Hustles the Class! And they ring themselves
Round the first bed, where the Chief
(His dressers and clerks at attention),
Bends in inspection already.
So shows the ring
Seen from behind round a conjurer
Doing his pitch in the street.
High shoulders, low shoulders, broad shoulders, narrow ones,
Round, square, and angular, serry and shove;
While from within a voice,
Gravely and weightily fluent,
Sounds; and then ceases; and suddenly
(Look at the stress of the shoulders!)
Out of a quiver of silence,
Over the hiss of the spray,
Comes a low cry, and the sound
Of breath quick intaken through teeth
Clenched in resolve. And the Master
Breaks from the crowd, and goes,
Wiping his hands,
To the next bed, with his pupils
Flocking and whispering behind him.
Now one can see.
Case Number One
Sits (rather pale) with his bedclothes
Stripped up, and showing his foot
(Alas for God's Image!)
Swaddled in wet, white lint
Brilliantly hideous with red.
1.4k
Red shoes on black carpet.
She skips across the floor, hands together pulling her small body forward.
From room to room she hustles, skirt all about her, not bothering to fix her hair.
I can see her in my dreams, with unclouded eyes she looks back at me.
She smiles at me in my dreams, and when I dream of her withdrawls do not wake up.
She is my *****
She is more beautiful than the flower
and has the *** appeal of the powder.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Always so insecure,
There seems no cure..
In the hunger of more,
Feeling anxiety till core..
Hustling ,
To end hustles,..
Building a dream,
All in bubbles..
Looking back,
Its hell and cries..
Trying to climb up,
There's a valley along,
deep enough to die..
Ahead i race,
Soul not keeping pace.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
Drips to the brain and a shock on your lips/
With a paper-thin smile as she slowly moves her hips/
Eyes glazed over she just wants to find a way out/
But she hits and then she trips until she's on the ground passed out.
You mean to tell me you're an angel?
**** lies.
Because you're stuck inside your own mind lookin' for a compromise.
Earthquake, shook up, waitin' for the sun to rise/
Aftershock, thrown up, do it all again tonight.
She's a little diva, with a tattoo when her sleave's up/
Keep it from the parents they don't know just what the street's done.
Darling likes 'em daring better hope she doesn't catch one/
Paralyzing stare and she'll forget you after all the fun.
But it's a sickness, her fever seems so cyclic.
She hustles-loves-and moves-on shouting independence.
'She's not the one to blame' they say, 'she's a product of her environment'
no way.
She's a self-sustained dope-headed crack-craving cock-train.
Begging for her high she can lie to fill the pocket,
A siren slowly swinging with her skin a little off-tint.
But what if lies were only lies because of what ourselves define,
and maybe lines scribbled over lines are just the best way I can hide.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Marvelous looks the way
same route though everyday
amid leaves' rustles
and street hustles
walking jogging running
merrily with the nimble steps
skimming on winds
in an imaginary land
soft little fingers
slipping in and out
of the age worn hand.
Ten minutes to ten minutes fro
changes the landscape though
stiff barren dull sad heavy.
The trudge back
along the insipid land
with no hands to hold.
The landscape holds nothing..
it's all in the mind.
Jul 26, 2024
Jul 26, 2024 at 2:09 PM UTC
•••
*City sounds, city lights
Chaos, hustles and bustles
Amidst the busy street
I saw you, only you
In a world of deafening sounds
And blinding lights
There was you, only you
And in a world where people come and go
You choose to stop and stay
You ask me to stop and not let go
And in the name of love, I did*
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
The impatient crowd hustles past this coffee shop window
each taking quickly paced steps until they disappear in the foggy haze,
the entire distance of my vision I continue to watch them go
until the gentleman before me picks up his coffee and pays.
I pick up a newspaper and slide the money to the cashier
moving to a seat in the corner so I am out of the way,
it has been thirty minutes since you should have been here
I smirk while considering what excuse you will create today.
The aroma of freshly brewed beans begins to overpower
as I have completed the first section of the daily news,
either my watch is broken or you are late by over an hour
A frown forms while I question what could have kept you.
The fog has now lifted, yet the ever-late pedestrians remain
I picture you among them, racing to a date you overslept,
appearing in the window, with a story you can hardly contain
explaining that if it were possible your promise would have been kept.
As I look up from my musings I realize you are in front of me
with a smile you ask “so this is where you have been?”,
then point to the the place where I am supposed to be
and it is I, not you, that seems to have gotten lost again.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
Sometimes
my crush for the world fantasy
Becomes impulsive
My instincts
Keeps driving me
To the things of pleasure
Sometimes,
I wish I ve all she has
Guess who I mean?
Sometimes
The world is ever near
I see the sight that dazzle
The tempting sounds I hear
The world is ever calling
But still my ego shy
In all this,
I remember
My mirrors lay pride on me
Sitting consciously for my breakthrough
out of the tempting world
His advice
becomes a watchword
That the tempting sounds faintly fade
The breeze blew off
The dazzling sights
And sometimes
Out of the struggle
Of fighting temptations
out of the hustles the world throws
Without straying from the pathway
I Had chosen with at most caution
That with no doubt
Victory lies ahead
And my future
Encapsulated with pure luxuries
Without blemish of any sort
My crown awaits me...
With much comfort
And outright satisfaction
That indeed I overthrown the worlds gaze
Saying this repeatedly
I came, I saw and I conquer....
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
*I always look forward to moments at supper
When we savor mama’s delicacies lacquered in pepper
Whilst listening to your narrations of fables
Cast in antiquity, of beings and their hustles.
Your razor sharp wit always on beck and call
To solve all thorny issues no matter how small.
Spotting an imperfection so perfect
To think you circumspect
Would be a costly error
Needless to say you still champion the era
Of pre-digital awareness
Yet you harness
Technology with mind boggling dexterity.
No wonder you possess an unmatched temerity.*
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
alone
With a lot
But alone
No reproaches
No hustles
but alone
In a world
Around me
are standing friends
'friends'
Alone
From an other time
they are
strangers
for me
I don't know them
And I've been knowing them
since a longtemps
They are together
They're laughing
About a joke
one I don't get
I don't want
to get
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Think you've been linkedIn
that you're as safe
because you're connected?
yeah
well,
take a long look at Brinks Mat,
money for old rope
robbed by them old blokes you
passed on the way here
and you still think you're linkedin?
stick a pin in any map and that'll show you
that there's a pinhole in the map, you see it and
believe it because the pin was in your hand and
Linkedin?
being Linkedin is a pinhole in the sand forever
caving in
forever falling through the castles that you build,
filled with this desire to set those sights of yours just a little higher
you'll give in to every whim,
make believe you are the pin, but baby,
you are not Linkedin
it's just a ******* scam.
Men with pins have a multitude of sins and lies disguised as truths and sold in fortune telling booths by Gypsies all related to the seventh son of **** knows who is the biggest pin of all.
Don't you fall into the trap of thinking you're linkedin because that's just crap and you're bigger than that, almost as big as Brinks Mat thought they were, but we don't go near there,
anymore.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Over the quiet distant moons @Pretty soon
I feel it coming like a long awaited cartoon.
That stallions ship.
passing in moonlit flights, rearing its engine again.
Telling me stories on the how's where's and when's.
Rewriting my pains repeatedly. What was The beautiful love story.
In all of its old glory.
That was now used to be.
It I will not let recapture me.
H/I/M wanting me back wanting me to believe again.
Never again want, a need to back up and pack.
No more sad dreams of hopes I can't get back.
H/i/m Lied lied once, lied more then twice, became uncountable.
Excuses timed out. Good wishes and desires @undiscernable.
Actions ought to show out and speak of our good intents.
Honorable, let me show you my good deeds.
If I want better.. How can I u-turn back to where I was lost.
Be it I'm a lover of commitment, giver of faithfulness equipped for stabilities.
logos of inner peace, removing foolishness at all cost.
Patiently listening.. full ear on learning. having hands full of pleasantries.
No room to be considerate of your unreasonable pitch.
Come now shut down
turn it down.
Cut off hustles handles of this hopeful switch.
Computers on a sudden glitch...
Must be time to release turn up your frown.
Let us accept these fields are pleased as we realize its over.. DONE.
selinasharday H/E/R 9/24 S.A.M
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 6:59 PM UTC
(crazy indeed i believe) by me.....
Forensic friar,
frigid liars,
arent we all the forecast over overnight paintings?
Packs to be handled,
monstorious scandal,
Murk with no lighted candle to show you thine way!!!
Merry making believers believe,
concievers concieve only to turn around to be fooled once again!!
Minced meat poison to drain thy wearied inner,
thy eyes sink in thinner,
as the sharpened mirrage stares back at you.......
indigence canst only grim so much,
doth thou haveth any more meaning without your Mr or Mrs special touch?
cacoon hustles muffled to trotted maturities,
where conspiracy takes strange,
taketh realism in full pains!!
tear away at these cut patches,
where bought blotches are nearly detailed!!
Crusade of all Majority,
spare from this speared destiny,
where old timing recipe's become thine old time Menu...........
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
a poem to America
The sun arose this morning
Shining among the horizon high
The blue skies is met with a streak of colorful rays of light.
Beyond the sounds of nature bloom
The sounds of industrial hustles and bustles
Being heard like a symphony--
A symphony of nature's glorious sounds that brings about the day.
The sounds of the day begins---
Sounds of workers working,
The rhythm of engines roaring as the city comes alive
And the city's skyscrapers reaches up high to the blue skies
To the heavens high.
While below the busy ant people gathers
To start a working day
Be it poor, rich, middle class or gay
They are busy about their busy day like so
And so are those called Americans.
The sounds of the city is heard as sirens roar
As the city is awaken by the sounds of the day
Trouble stirring about
In the city that never sleeps.
And when the day is done
The busy people conclude their day
And now the night comes.....
It was a good day.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
How do you know
when you’ve written the perfect poem?
how do you show it,
when they already know it?
what if I wrote a verse everyday?
and is it more legitimate if I were to get paid?
I have all these words in my head
of love
and of wonder,
of theories
and of blunders.
but will they all fit together?
will they move you and the world
and be something to show?
something to read everyday
-to move you along
and pave a way?
you know if I could,
I’d tell you all the right things
and be your savior,
your encyclopedia,
your wheels ,
and your wings.
I’d have a verse
to cover all topics
-and one to cover all occasions.
and every time you read them
it would be like a vacation.
it would be modest and humble
yet still so aureately moving
it would make your heart rumble;
nothing so contrived, that if the ideals prove inept,
it would make your soul crumble.
…something to show you
that I genuinely care
and that I’m not one big bribe
that hustles love and benevolence
from anywhere.
…something to prove
that compassion is not a myth.
and something
that you can always take-with.
I’ll leave my desire at that
and my plea for unadorned perfection right here….
and I’ll tell you more about it
when you inquire about my fears.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC