"mics" poems
My dear summers dream was to the taste cream
Pass me the triple beam the microphone fiend
Back on the scene simplicity is your complexity
So amazingly like grace I be rockin' the place
Like we Studio 54 shut down the doors
Once the bubbly pours and the **** adores
Ya mental **** ya sentimentals and these new aged millennials
They too satirical I make miracles flow potholes
Creatin' mass mayhem your an inconvenience
Cuz of ya hesitance my presence is known
Without even being shown paragraphs of stone
Hard to crack waxing tracks like a shark attack
Felonious acts we never back down
Til my soul drown in the core of the earth
Royalties since birth new my worth they tried to mirth
At my pain tryna change the game cuz all these cowards
Saying the same thang got dang got dang
Time to chess box like Wu Tang leavin' a stain
On ya reign no tears though I'll be on solo
Rippin' up instrumentals ya know how we do so...yeahhh
From the Sunny to bees that make the honey
Sticky icky like my spliffs be call me smokey
Puttin' fire to mother natures forests check the creases I
unleashes
Rap game mafiaso so so better back back
Or else get dropped lika Domino so here we go!
Here we go!
With the ghetto jams love girls with the derriere's of Pam
Got **** once again it's time to slam
Mics harder than Shawn Kemp ya flows shrimp
That's why ya girl calls me Mr **** no limp
Slick as Rick hello young world tilt and a whirl
Catch the swirl of Qatar Pearls on the neck of ya girl
Suckas better know I'm coming with a blow
Harder than Bowe combined with a super glow
black Saiyan raps slayin' turntables layin'
So I can get wicked lyrics Pickett
like Wilson
Flows in unison formation
of words
Herds a violent surge
feel the purge
We high rising no disguisin'
knockin' out Suckas who jivin' ain't none survivin' ?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
& now I know we share Oscar Peterson in common
I want to love you all the more,
till the world ends
Let our beloved rain fall
Let our days howl of our Ginsberg
Plath, Eliot & Dylan
& others, more obscure
Let us buy that Edward Hopper
we both love
& let us sleep in your car
out on the Yorkshire Moors
You're the milk in my coffee
Let me be the billboard
you advertize our love on
lets be breathless metaphors
of each other
the quotation marks
around each others words
high on the ******* of stars
& always read
each others poems
drag each other to open mics
& drink too much
let's make Cupid jealous
of the fiery arrows
we use to stab
one another
if it doesn't work out
& make the Angels
jealous of our heaven
if it does
lets be a restless breeze
that blows
through the world
& stirs each leaf
with our words
lets just be us
fellow hermit
fellow poet
Soulmate
that's
the word
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:31 PM UTC
Connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness,
at,
a house party in The Hamptons,
July 6th. 2018,
last week D.C.,
next week Miami,
bless the vibes like we bless the mics,
that’s why they want us around,
if I get the invite & have the time I might take that flight,
because I’ve been all around but still up to get gown,
buzzing off of a mixture of different chemicals,
feeling Sharon ****** operating off of basic instinct,
Semi-Quasi-Serious-Centennial-American-Millennials,
were are what is in so we tell them to get out with their doubts & we dismiss what they think,
live big & still get enough to give more than a little bit away to various charities,
with 3rd Eye Vision that’s 20/20 so they can’t pull a fast one on me,
in the perfect position I see everything while most of them can barely see anything,
not kidding but we do play no kids no way,
our artistic creations are what we will leave behind as our living legacies,
staying grounded at the same time we’re all stars outta this world like a fabulous galaxy,
where we connect like comets,
got thoughts but won’t comment,
controversial as a result of being honest,
honestly sick of the politics & sick of the nonsense,
actually I’m sick of it all to be honest but still I won’t *****
conflicted by the conflicts that’re inflicted on my conscience,
from the constant onslaught of plots that they’ve got that I’m barraged with,
in this enormous orbit that we’re all in it’s ugly & gorgeous I’m nauseous but conscious,
just wishing they’d stop it & I’ve lost my train of thought but haven’t yet lost consciousness…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 12:52 AM UTC
Rugby town, of landlocked streets,
of wasted field and barefaced retreat;
I miss you now, in absence of a friend,
I miss you now, in the verse that I lend.
Suburb grove, of sleepy mist,
oh, battered housewife, oh blastocyst;
you will remain in place forevermore,
and forevermore, you'll become a bore.
Holding cell, of sporting fame,
you stole my dreams but gave me my name;
I think of you: a multi-storey view,
of happy faces, of which there is few.
Still, my town, in debt's nightgown,
the shop-fronts vacate, we're feeling down;
these streets are poisoned with names of the past,
each memoir to teach: nothing's built to last
Rugby town, of weary folk,
the private school is a private joke;
I miss you now, as I sleep through the day,
I miss the old walks, and all that you'd say.
Old market town, the aftermath,
of British summer, suicide bath;
of open mics and closing the shutters,
of waking graveyards, sleeping in gutters.
Hopeless climbs, of dreary times,
of childhood state and nursery rhymes;
each time that I come home, I know you less,
becoming a stranger in my redress.
Clock tower, chiming, chiming loud,
singing for history long and proud;
of Rupert Brooke and the question: “what if?”
What if I was born to some lover's tiff?
To some large and friendless town,
to some body of land, which I drown;
to some active place of pain unknown,
to some place that I'll not gauge that I've grown,
oh Rugby dear, stay with me,
let me live on the periphery;
and although this town seems terribly dull,
it could be worse – I could live in Hull.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
My Sunglasses
I’ve got all of Tucson trapped behind my sunglasses
I’ve framed mountain ranges in the frames of my Raybands
I’ve got reflections of saguaro’s stranding still in front of my eyes
I have sunny days taking refuge underneath my shades
I’ve domesticated the giant star that rides blues skies into walking the edge of my brow
I use black plastic as onyx shields
So Tucson, I see you.
There’s an art revolution beating at your horizon
I’ve seen it skirting around these wastelands
They tell us we’re wasting our time
Telling the roadrunner to run back home
When its nest was here since the beginning of time
Tucson.
I’ve seen folklorico and mariachi pay tribute to your origins on the hottest of days
I’ve seen in the shadows in underground art forms
Graffetti. There’s a protest in there somewhere.
I’ve even witnessed it in pen to paper
In lips to mics. In cafés in your desert nights for your desert nighttime audiences.
Tucson, your culture and artistic value shines too bright for others to see.
Your artistic worth shines too bright for others to broadcast
They tend to only record your overdoses and murders
Seems like our televised story tellers prefer to paint us in immoral reds
The only time they pay the south side attention is when the south side is aching
It doesn’t help that schools force you to choose business
Give you chance to study law all the while cut out your art programs
Fine art is required by universities but they don’t always expect you to get that far.
Tucson’s fine art is too fine and infinite to be recognized by those undeserving
Society wants to capture our southern brethren as outlaws not poets
We’re called the misfit of the desert. As if every spray can, paint stroke, choreographed twist,
Slam poem wasn’t something to take pride in.
I’m sorry they only pay your schools attention when ambulances are parked in your driveways
And administrators get caught in doing ***** deeds.
I see your talent wasted. Your talent shown.
To remind myself of your artistic significance, I’ve framed you
On walks home I photograph your murals.
Listen to the poets in the hallways.
Observe the dancers compose and the musicians choreograph
I’ve caught your reflection in my corneas’.
I’ve dilated my pupils thoughts behind my sunglasses.
Framed your mountain ranges in my frames.
Took cover in your shades.
Trained the artistic freedom and right to walk on my brow
Tucson
I see you.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:58 PM UTC
I have a right to stand
I'm claiming it now.
Turangawaewae; 'a place to stand'
Is a deep empowerment from the land
Learnt through ancestral connection
Strengthened through ahi ka; 'keeping the fires burning'
Well, my ancestral stories ain't so impressive
There were few battles
Though my granddad worked for the air force in world war two
- As an accountant
We didn't encounter the gods or try to bring down the sun
Though when my Grandma arrived here she built up the soil
Soul of the Earth
For 70 years
As the city sprang up around her
And my mother aged 11 played follow the leader with a goat in the next door construction site
Where her house is now
My uncle found an old mans false teeth in a cup
Climbing through an abandoned house
My aunt visited James K Baxter's Jerusalem
She wasn't a fan of his poetry
But his wisdom spoke to her
My other aunts jumped through the neighbours trees
Who threatened to shoot them
My father followed my mother here
After her O.E with my sister in the oven
He ******* about John Key as much as anyone
And praises this land; it is home.
I stood on a windy cliff surrounded by pohutukawa and learnt the whisper of the sea
Roughing it on an island I tried determinedly to turn into a pukeko
I got my first cut, bruise, scrape from this land
My first breath, poem, touch of a violin, my first kiss was here
I know the rough patches, the fringe scene, where the best soil is
(It's at my grams house)
I know how to spot a drug house, which cafes will let us jam, where the open mics are 5 days of the week.
I know Kirikiriroa.
My fires have been burning
And I have a right to stand
I have learnt through my own evolution
Through Janet Frame's railroad country
Through a history
Cities growing and spreading
They weren't just here
As it has always seemed to me.
The countryside, what was here before?
Landscapes of forest and mountain
Familiar yet unknown to me.
When I go away I will know the difference
When I return I will know this land
The depth recognized through contrast
Defined by difference
As the sun and moon complement
Light and dark
Sorrow and joy
And,
As in yin and yang
I will know nothing is completely separate.
When I go away I will know
So fully
And I will return and say:
This is my place to stand
My turangawaewae
My Aotearoa
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
I've been looking for you in each stranger,
Each blue eye with sand hair makes me turn,
Each musical note I play is a reminder of your name,
I often forget to distinguish my voice from yours though this mics
I said I'll be strong but mama I miss you.
I guess blood is thicker than time than death since,
Each eye on this arena feels like yours
Every time I give life to this fiction characters
I hear your laugh,feel you cringe,
Each attempt to hide from this paps,
Feels like a carbon copy of yours,only with a failed attempt
I said i'll be strong but mama I miss you.
It's been a decade,I want to lie i'm stronger/mature i'm not
I still ball over and cry sometimes,especially days like this,
I still let them in even though you warned me about naivety,
I still shy away from the life you and dad gave us,
I know I said i'll be strong but mama I miss you.
I have loads of questions,so I ask the siblings you gave me,
Hoping they asked the same questions to you,
Hoping they pour your knowledge to me,
I watch you,how you were,so beautiful so young,
I know I said i'll be strong but mama I miss you.
I've tried been good,
Though this creepy's make the search engine say am not,
I want to talk about your old man and your boys,
Right now though I'll be a little selfish because,
I know I said i'll be strong but mama I miss you.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
One phonecall? Alert the public
Who would you call in a stance of conundrum in case the sky's falling down?
Desperate measures in desperate times
I carry an emergency kit with extra ink for my rhymes
And a band aid for my lips to cover up the disease they diagnosed me with;
Of Spitting up filthy ****
Labeling ill kids,
With conditions made up like myths
Deluded? Please.
Excuses are sad pleas to ensure the public's attention skips the obvious.
So I'd rather lock myself away,
And use my notebook to convey my love;
For the person I'd dedicate one last phone call to.
Lock myself away like Anne frank in the attic and write so much fire it produces sparks
the static is electric; the rush through my veins has me lost,
In the cosmic abyss of my thoughts
While I'm lit... I concoct schemes to conquer mics
If you dissect my insides with jabs, I'll retaliate with clever forensics;
Cut myself open for the world to see,
That all I'd bleed is metaphors in overdose...
Infinite similes are the catalyst to my rhythmic metamorphosis
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
You're here.
We don't talk,
but I'm quietly watching you,
so when you make eye contact shyly
it's easy to know what we are doing.
You approach me,
sanitizing wipe, Band-Aid, and mic
(complete with wires)
and peel the plastic.
Swab my cheek gently,
and I smell the alcohol
but it's a pleasant
smell now.
Put the mic over my ear,
position it against the side of my face,
tape the Band-Aid to my cheek,
fingers brushing my skin.
You send the wire down my dress,
pull up my skirt and reach up for the end,
soft fingers lightly skimming over my back.
Adjust the mic in its belt, and lower the fabric.
Tell me in your sweet voice:
"Look right"
I do, "oh, hair", you say, and I pull
my ponytail out of your way,
thinking of your soft short hair.
Then, "Look straight"
and as I do, and you tape the mic tape
against my neck, I'm thinking
"I do."
Backstage I think to myself
that you haven't done anyone else's mics,
and this makes me feel good.
I know later I'll be watching for you
to be free, so I can feel your hands
near me, watch your eyes rimmed
with liner as they study the mic
hooked to my face.
Crouching slightly as you are up
on tip-toes, and we can communicate
silently once more.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
Yo I got skillz by the millions
With tons of ammunition
Who fuckin' with the commission my mission
Is to control the rap game blow fish tactics
From ******* who **** quick my **** stick
Slick leave em with one eye patch cookin' up another batch
Can ya catch
The madness of real ***** with multiple figures money surpassin' the aurora
Hardcorer grim explorer non could ignore tha
Deadly pedigrees sheddin so beautifully
Im feelin' like Mango Slade cuts through like a blade
Lyrics colder than the words from Chuckie
Coastin' spells I do it well it ain't hard to tell
While ya souls fail another body destined to hell
It's Yosef ninth gate chillin' over ya crates
Like a demon intervention got ya nerves
Penchin' and itchin' soon to be twitchin' and inchin'
My every move I'm takin' ove the earthly ground
Bow down what's that it's the Southside
Breakin' em down so ya bound to drown
My armed men stack men from the guns
That back bend to the roads ya
End
No longer boys to men to deaths I comprehend
Takin' on deadly sins seven to chose from
I'm makin' chaos from USA to the New Jerusalem
And who's dumb? Enough to **** with me
While I'm on my Crazy *** leavin' ya stunned
And outdunned and who can
Come?
Against my magnificence layin' hellish scents
In the forms of an emodiment
Who could stop it
Since adversaries are culprit let the snakes
Shake and take away these painful memories
Yeah I'm dreadin' ya head missin' the feds
*** I got more bread than Pillsbury dough
So quick with the skills and I
Know
Suckas don't wanna go toe to
Toe
**** mics worse than Exodus who can plex with us
The coldest strong as a swingin' boulders
Knockin' ya head off ya shoulders I thought I told ya
Southside stay running with hidden
Soldiers
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
I've Had This Said...
A Couple of Times...
My Cadence Is TIGHT...
When Reciting Rhymes... !!!
The Movement of Sound...
When I... Vocalise...
Which Is Also Known...
As... INTONATION...
If You're Reading This... ?
That's.... Education.... !!!
Cos' Words Like These...
Have Close Relations... !!!
NO NOT Like THAT... !!!
But That's A... FACT... !!!
Intonation And Cadence...
Make For Good Entertainment... !!!
When Done With STYLE... !!!
But You NEED A Good Voice...
That Is... TOP Choice... !!!
And Keeps The Ladies....
Slightly... " MOIST "...
Pay Attention Now Boys... !!!
Cos' A Voice That's SWEET...
Can Help You Get...
Girls In Your Sheets... !!!
YES For... RELATIONS... !!!!!
So We're Back Again...
To... INTONATION...
If You Use It WELL...
You Make Pulses RISE...
Just Like... INFLATION...
Or Just Like England's Taxation... !!!
But KEEP Your Cadence Moving On...
Keep It Slick And NOT TOO Blatant...
Cos' This Can Make Some ...
LOSE Their...................... Patience... !!!
Then Your Message Is LOST...
Like Beds For Patients... !!!
Intonation Is A Wonderful Gift...
So I'm Using Mine For Poetic Scripts...
Cos' When The Two Get Together...
It's A... PERFECT FIT... !!!!!
Like Guns And Clips... !!!
Or Cues And Tips...
Or A Great Pair of Lips...
Around A STIFF... DRINK... !!!!!
Did You Get The Link... ?
See Words I Write...
Make People THINK... !!!
And Leave Some Resting....
On The... BRINK... !!!
Or On The... VIRGE... !!!
Cos' Some of My Words...
Make People... SINK...
Into Leather Chairs...
Talking To... Shrinks... !!!
But Cadence Linked To Intonation...
Makes My Message Seem Less Blatant...
My Message Is Honed...
To... UNIFY Nations...
Through Usage of Prose...
And... INTONATION... !!!
Are You With Me Folks... ?
Can You See The... " Relation "... ?
Or BETTER Still The Slick Connection... !!!
My Message Is STRONG...
And Has... Direction... !!!
But Does Inflection...
DIVERT............ Attention... ?!?
Well THAT's A Subject...
WORTH... Inspection... !!!
Does My Voice Attract... ?
Or Is It Because I'm BIG and Black... ?!?
And Do NOT Run From PAINFUL Facts...
When Using Words To WOUND Infections... !!!
And EXPOSE THOSE Who Have DEFECTIONS... !!!
Sometimes I Laugh...
When I Read This Stuff... !!!
Cos' CLEARLY Some Get In A HUFF... !!!
And Wish That I Would Just SHUT UP... !!!
That's Cool With Me...
But PAY ATTENTION PLEASE... !!!!!
My Poetry Will NEVER Freeze... !!!
And NOBODY Will Stop My Speech...
From Reaching Those It NEEDS To REACH... !!!
Well Someone CAN...
Guess Who... Yes ME... !!!
But That I'm Afraid Is UNLIKELY... !!!
Cos Yoda Has Instilled In Me...
THESE Three words...
… ”It's Your Destiny !" …
I'm FEELING That...
Are You Feeling ME... ?
Feel Free To Applaud...
If You Like My Style of Poetry... !!!
I'll Continue To Read...
While My Mind Runs FREE...
And Want My Words...
To OUTLAST me... !!!
Through Publishing And OTHER Things...
Like TEACHING The Dumb To STOP KILLING... !!!
But THAT Will Be WITHOUT My Voice...
Soothing Mics' With Baritone Noise...
Well That's The FUTURE...
But While i'm Here...
I'll KEEP ON Speaking And Relating...
By Using STRONG...
... " Cadence and Intonation " ...
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:37 PM UTC
Gunmetal Christmas socks pulled
past the calf like go-getter high school
girls "rocking" rainbow ******** below
the belt loops. I never went a day
without seeing short shorts and socks
replacing pant legs with a gap at the knee
to breathe. Downplay X-mas with black
jeans thinning 'bove the knees. I guess
it's payback for all the surly Santas
paid per nervous child lapdance
that got ******* out of $1.50
because I walked away.
For all the St. Nicks breathing pressurized
bourbon on little kids' wishlists.
Thread through a burgundy belt frayed
by the buckle teeth. And I'm sure this is really
burgundy, probably the only burgundy I never
questioned much, unless the manufacturer's
lying to me. Unless it's really a flexible case
for wild circuits and tiny open mics in bars
going on 'round the clock. Not just Tuesdays.
Fiber optics around my waist transmitting
telephone transmissions and cybernetic ****
monitoring my hips and what my **** does.
And my thoughts; they're ******* taking
my thoughts. Precious poetry lines lost
to the scarcity of pens in my car, when I'll
shave next, whether or not I want a burr grinder,
if I'll break glasses at work and have to drink
the glitters like iced tea from the hardwood floor.
Maybe I'll cut my gums. Maybe my tongue'll
become a chandelier butterfly and carry
me to Coudersport or Elmira or Nowhere
to watch pregnant teenagers push flat-tire
shopping carts heroin-shaking in the newborn
section. Their babies are spitting up Gerber plans
Mom has never considered. Baby's just a rock rolling
down the birth canal that may someday end up
a boulder in a state park.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I'm every rho you know in alphabet rhyme football
every proof patterned in logic that you'd measured utmost to every new fall
at every fit you'd know you're the number one of profit of rage
having perfection to perfect what i am like being the true prophet of rage,
I'll get at you birth heavy like genius, having you walking with peg legs, as calculation wind blown like every pin known true like it's been age
mixing with my mics you'd think i was truly bald
when actuality you're singing with the control of my voice as time newly halts
not knowing hindsight, i'm now informing my women what the u in **** as the mimicking fault
slippin ************ thats why you're face lacks
bo legged at everytime you'd think i didn't know as you get your face jackED
murderin while a professional wrestler i had you employed and now before you, you embrace jack
**** with my bald *** of growth, it's just that fact of being me when at that has your race blacked
women know and men of woe is sorrow receiver catching your space MACKED
who'd ever say that ******* with you all like you could ever get me arrested
another attempt will give me back the sleep you jacked in me when i'm a natural depressant
i'll expose that my wife made you and now you're without legs
tryin to sing with a guitar like you're singing without pegs
'difference is strength when i return as mediocre
i'll tell you know that i jacked you up so you know that life's the owner.
i'll bring you back to when i was born, that would be the age of the brown at '82, jacked them all like if i was in the back of the discovered future exists parallel like you ever knew like how I proved anew,
like my wack smile i gave you to have you know i owned yours as duck rapper interoggation like your *** that proof of scent you're drag like having your *** to think now that you're cooking food.
you're cooking while every chief is now overlooking the passiveness, like how every german hybrid british will have to have you as i move near
feel rhyme as i have you feel time, woe wish now what you couldn't now know that my women own time to have every man to know that both sides know fear
every discovery is everything that i hold dear
**** what you all are cuz what might is that sight as all in are known peers
majority of chaos inferiority as the majority known how which is what you not've known like how they hold on is what i hold all to known dear
actual is obvious to have you all at blank stag actual wrestler like you ever even owned deer.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:20 AM UTC
We are like neutered mutts,
drowsily as we sate on.
100 years of 24 frames per second
left too many of us wondering about the future
while reflecting on a past
never engaged in the present
always being.
The radio is concerned,
a voice drones on
flies over our head
and broadcasts into the living room.
This energy is a wave, follow the sin
Your body already knows how to covert the pressure
into electricity for your receptors.
Later, we stand at the altar
of boys with guitars
of boys with mics
The aux cable beheads his neck
we pardoned a sea of excuses
The F/A-18 drops the mic.
Women salivate the crowd.
That other gentile touch.
Throw a burka on that *****
Magazine dictate should we be?
Clip up pandora,
the liquid streams on.
There was never a box.
You were just born with fingers and toes
to touch ears to hear eyes to see a brain
to think to receive a nose
to breath a mouth to kiss and say,
"There is disappointment everywhere but still I love."
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
Black men were stripped of their power and might.
Surviving in the streets
taught them how to strive and fight.
I turn the TV on, not a black man in sight.
Unless he dribble or he fiddle mics.
Every black boy wants to grow up and be like Nas or Mike.
Blacks are not televised unless they are brocasted to fight.
I ride through the city's bright night lights, thinking one day how ɰє mıɢһţ live better.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 10:21 PM UTC
this morning, entrenched in slumber,
i dreamt of clammy hands on mics
as spoken word slipped like water
droplets from faucet formed lips.
i woke up,
and finished the poem aloud.
success.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:45 AM UTC
I want to fall in love with
kisses in the morning, and
cuddling at night;
baking cookies on Saturday afternoons,
where I get to find flour in my hair at night;
singing new music in the car,
discussing politics over dinner.
I want to fall in love with
deep eyes, soft lips, strong arms;
movie nights, karaoke, open mics,
slow dancing, fancy dinners;
goofy inside jokes,
relentless teasing,
and a bit of friendly competition.
I want to fall in love with
outdoors summer adventures,
bright city lights over the holidays;
long walks on the beach,
nights spent under the stars.
I want to fall in love with
acceptance, tolerance, unyielding love;
forever and always,
you.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
hey so I make videos, and look, you all are smart people so who else should try and make a video for this and maybe win $1500! so I am going to do it, you should to, and if you're a finalist you get 200$ they care more bout the audio. visual is not as important, but I feel all poets should be available to this challenge! again AUDIO IS KEY! read the rules! I am planning on entering so even if you're not going to enter, please comment and give me some ideas bc I got equipment (cameras, mics, video crap) and days to film, and it's a class project/ final for me, and I GOT TO PICK IT, I sometimes like my film class ** but link below!
https://www.projected.com/contests/77-a-song-for-annabel-lee
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
Loud lights and
open mic nights scare me,
to write the truth.
The things i write
and the things i say
live in two different worlds.
one - where my mind has its
own way - telling me to
keep mum at least today - s p o k e n
the world i try to hide in
on paper
is forgiving.
it will never shun me
for living
under layers
upon layers
upon layers
of curving words that i created - w r i t t e n
i pretend to think
of the rhythm that should inhabit
the empty space between words,
but then i fail,
almost
by force of habit -
as you can now very well see
or hear?
Mics aren't as forgiving as people.
when the speakers blast
my trembling breath
into the corners of a small room,
i think i understand
why a mountain can be named
Mount Doom -
it's the same amount of effort. - s p o k e n
What do i do, then?
Then, i run.
i clamber over steps
stumble over wires
careful not to trip.
i leave behind the small room
with big people
and laughing lips.
and i run, run, run.
i close the door behind me
as i break into my own
castle of ink and unsaved notes.
i thank the chineese
for turning trees into
empty screens waiting
for me to empty my thoughts
onto them.
thank you, darling Egypt
deceased trees make me feel
better about myself
every single day - w r i t t e n
I'm proud of my words.
In secret, mostly.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
My friend Greg is musically talented, a singer-like R-Kelly, and because of that he acts like a dog, around women. Who stand by fire hydrants. He plays with his instrument in front of people on the street. And sometimes, the piano too. When Greg plays, he always wears huge sunglasses. That’s because he wants to impersonate Ray Charles. Plus, it’s cheaper than doing ****** Although, he does make a lot of money and he wants to start a band. Band-Aid company. But on a serious note, Greg teaches lessons to his students. They have tiny fingers, so it’s hard for them to reach the keys. But that’s okay because they’re in his pockets. As a musician, he dresses in black clothing. Excuse me, he dresses in African-American clothing. Before shows at open mics, in front of the audience, Greg sometimes throws up. Gang signs. In all honesty, Greg gives a great performance on stage. He just pretends the audience is naked. And then he gives them five and half minutes. As his friend, before he stepped onto the stage, I told him, “break a leg.” He tells me, thank you for pushing me so hard. As he hops around on crutches. Greg’s really good playing the piano, but the audience always gives him a slow clap. But that’s what happens when you play for retards. He considers himself a feminist womanizer. He sleeps with a lot of women. But don’t worry, he always asks for consent, before he roofies your drink. I know this from experience. He’s a good friend though. Once, I was dancing with a girl and I slipped and fell to the floor. Greg rushed over to me and stuck out his hand And I was so grateful for his friendship, until he grabbed the girl’s *** But you can’t blame him, it was really dark in there, how was he supposed to know that was his sister. Greg loves Shanghai Noon. He’s a huge fan of Owen Wilson. And me. Greg thinks all Asian people look the same. When he saw the Walking Dead Season premiere, he sent a flower-basket to my parents. Greg is so charming. Like the toilet paper. His favorite sport’s team is the Chicago Cubs, his favorite women are the Chicago Cougars.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
Get my head right
Just like in jail ******* up my appetite
Man this **** is suicide
Give up your only pride
And when you do you'll realize
There's no apple in my eyes
For I have cried every last flavor so there's a lack of color
That's why I'm always mad you ************
***** *** *** don't even know
(Don't even know)
Don't need the problems so just go
(Problems are a big no no)
All about that money
Eyes stay ******
Just to see the world different cause its so ugly
Swerving lanes gets me car sick
But it don't faze Carson
Army strong like a martian
Feeling alive getting it in tight
Smiling through the ******** you know its alright
Hide my soul so I wouldn't be leavin
Smoke bowls in the morning and blunts in the evening
Oh yes I inhale ****
Wrecking these mics cause my flows are so real
***** im so chilled
Since my birth the day I came to earth
There was a burst of hate that got worse.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC