"vietnamese" poems
Never be ashamed of your native language
Say those beautiful
Phrases and words
Loud and proud.
Do not let anyone stop you from speaking
Let your voice be
Heard and recognized
Don't you dare let anybody make fun of your accent
Embrace the thickness
Don't ever lose grasp of it.
For it is one of the precious treasure
You could ever hold on to
After leaving your homeland
To start a new life in a foreign country
That offers you a whole lot of new opportunities.
Hold on to your mother tongue
As tight as you can
Because this new country you now live in
Will do its very best to change your identity
And oppress your culture.
So it be French or Spanish
Korean, Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese
Tagalog, Cebuano, Ilonggo
Greek, Punjabi, Hindi, Sinhalese
Arabic, Vietnamese, Portuguese
German or Russian
And any other language there is in the world.
It has exquisite words that just cannot be simply translated into English
For it has far greater meaning behind it
It is very much well-written
Alluring to one's eye and
Spoken eloquently and gracefully
That the English language is not able to compare
To your admirably and enticing
Well-spoken mother tongue.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 9:21 PM UTC
I want to go back, back to my New Orleans
This place that I call New Orleans is actually Louisiana
But still, the gorgeousness of this dirt and grime
The live oaks stretching over the 6-lane wide streets,
Touching leaftips, making a canopy over the passerbys
Crepe myrtles showering streets with lacy pink faerie dresses
Smells of beignets and seafood fill the French Quarter
Intense, consuming, warm, loving sun burning through your shirt
In New Orleans to say horses sweat, men perspire and women glow
is to be ridiculous.
In New Orleans everyone sweats like pigs.
As for the grime I mentioned, this exists mainly in
the sidewalks cracked by live oaks which make an adventure of every walk down the street
And in any semi-deserted street
To have a Mardi Gras or St. Patrick's Day without a parade and citywide party is to toss aside traditions and the New Orleanian way
The New Orleanians are welcoming, hearty and heartwarming, tough and unafraid to talk to a stranger on the streets.
An old black man once greeted me with 'konichiwa' as I walked past
A middle aged white man once struck up a conversation with us as he realised we had shared the same ferry earlier in the day
An old asian woman conversed familiarly with our family at Cafe Du Monde simply because we are Vietnamese as well
A teenaged white boy waved at us as we drove past him jogging
A different old black man stopped and serenaded my siblings, mother and me with his trumpet just because we smiled
Several young mothers and women have stopped my mother to gush over my siblings and me, usually when we were very small
I, myself, have given directions to a tourist or two, lost near Cafe Du Monde or the levee,
And I hope that the warm smiling spirit of the Big Easy will remain forever immortal.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
Racing, blind nights gone weary,
Missing like cold wind, blowin'
Trees, objects of nature caught ruthlessly divine,
Simple cognition or possible chasing lights drowning tears mark moons and mansions alike, in the presence of fire,
The great blind rat lifting it's tail, in disgrace showing motionless mass,
Get the blackness on the Jordan river death urge silently moving like herds of sheep in the hills of Holy
Thousands of nation men, trodden down with sand and mud just to get the right passage of mind and thought
A small Vietnamese girl,
About the size of a...
Nevermind the voices you hear they all come awake and slowly disappear
Droughts of ether alike in tunes I might just do without the rest of doubts hedges lawns and patios
Glazed in passionate flowers
Paradoxical a nebula unhidden,
Slow chasing the candle lit masks
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
I could run away to you, world.
drink in your every scent, the dust
the hurt.
backpedal through Venetian streets,
high-five Buddhist monks,
paddle softly through the Dead Sea,
eat Vietnamese fish with blind children,
pound out piles of dough in back-alley German bakeries,
kiss the single root of an aspen tree
and post it all online.
grinning like a devil, silently screaming
*my life is better than yours
my life is better than yours*
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
In the burning right hand of the bald city,
denizens frame calories and count instagram blessings
while beacons of hope refund inspiration in USADA *** cups.
Abyssinian maids wail over yesterday lovers
who wore Ginsberg’s skirt with less pizzazz
and watched bedbugs **** blood off knee caps
wondering, what if Jesus Christ drove a Nissan?
As bullets of paragraphs fall Vietnamese pesticides on my head,
The dusts off my breath sing homilies
With letters of broken leather whiskey,
For even in the most dishonest jest,
clandestine toothbrushes are overrated
and every first false lie is the only truth.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”
by Michael R. Burch
for Trump
I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”
So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”
I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)
So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.
At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.
Originally published by Café Dissensus
Keywords/Tags: Einstein, Adolph, ****** Berlin, Jew, Jews, Arab, Arabs, Palestinian, Palestinians, Vietnam, Vietnamese, American, Americans, Yankees, Domino, Theory, Dominoes, Jesus, Christ, Bible, Christian, Christianity, Slave, Slaves, Slavery, Israel, Jerusalem, Tel Aviv
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:11 AM UTC
black, white, brown
red, blonde, brunette
blue, amber, emerald
everyone so different
no one the same
short, tall, thin, fat
every size, shape
divergent, unique
Spanish, French, Japanese
Latino, Asian, Vietnamese
north, south, east, west
England, Morocco, Paraguay
child, adolescent, adult
heart, lung, eyes, brain
soul, spirit, mind
fear, love, pain, strength
unalike......identical
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
In Đà Nẵng my friends cradled me like a child.
We screamed Taylor bridges,
tequila-toasted in bars until the lights blurred.
A single candle in the bathroom
danced warm sighs through open windows,
and all felt calm.
I grew new muscles balancing on a motorcycle,
sometimes gripping Harry’s jacket,
sometimes throwing my weight into the wind.
The city flared neon and gasoline in stuttered traffic,
but along the coast
he drove so fast the vibrations in my chest harmonized.
I pictured my bones becoming butterflies if I let go.
I had entered the Year of the Dragon on a futon,
swayed to half-sleep by a hundred chanting voices
from the temple next door.
I did not dream of dragons.
I only learned to breathe fire.
At midnight Bailey stood at an ancestral altar,
kumquat branches, apricot blossoms, red envelopes, wine,
burning full sticks of incense,
and smoking half a pack of Esse Lights.
This is how the year turns over safely.
Tết is not about faith; it’s about continuity.
The Year of the Snake slid in with new bones and old habits.
It hissed that suffering could be scripture
until letters slithered free from the page
and coiled like cold jewelry around my wrist.
I didn’t make it for Tết that year
no silk áo dài, blood orange, too big
for a body that learned shrinking
before it learned staying.
That was the shedding.
Salt water peeling old skin away,
songs shouted so loud they drowned the ache,
poems that did not start tragic,
nights when my body finally kept time with the moon.
At home the water did not move.
At home the dog’s teeth found my hope.
A terrified mouth rerouted rivers
through my soft parts.
A jewel carved from my nose.
Six punctures blooming across my arms like altars.
In Vietnamese stories the snake waits beneath the water
to claim whoever dares the bank.
I wonder if I was chosen the moment
I opened my mouth in those bars,
when I leaned into the bike’s curve
as if danger could be a swan song.
Now I lie awake at hours unnamed,
tracing scars that hiss answers back.
Something from Vietnam keeps breathing through me,
the candle’s heat, the coast’s long nerve,
voices braided into salt and night,
and I cannot tell if they are echoes
or fangs testing the dark.
They say snakes shed to grow,
but no one warns you how thin the new skin feels,
how everything burns against it,
how you mistake survival for prophecy.
I touch the scar and wonder
if I am still that girl clinging to the bike,
or if the snake has already swallowed me,
patient, sleepless,
feeding on my own venom.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 1:24 PM UTC
Verse 1 (Honey *******
***** I'm Honey ******* bout to bring em some pain.
All my haters like a choir, they all singin my name.
Ain't got a heart for a broad that's the rule of the game.
Now you a fool if you aim.
Ill put a tool to ya brain.
I'm bout to get it and spend it.
If I said it, I meant it.
#FuckYoFeelings. Taste my weapon.
Act like a ***** Ill raise your blessings YOW
You are not familiar with me.
If you come makin a move, ***** yo visitor me
Verse 2 (Tyga):
Its that drop top phenom chop.
All gold rolly top.
**** yo fans, **** a cop.
All my ******* Betty bop.
Betty boop, ******* out.
Gangsta **** punch you in yo mouth.
***** I don't know what you talkin bout.
Flossin now you need dentist now Augh AUGH
**** around and Rodney King the beat.
Bout that war like Vietnamese.
Feelin froggy ***** leap.
I'm that ***** you obsolete.
I'm in that game you know P-T
R-E-C My Swa A-G. Only way you copying me ***** Augh
Verse 3 (Honey *******
Asian ***** on another degree.
Give me some space, move out my place, ***** I'm just tryna breath.
Now if you, see me around your way don't holler at me.
I just can't waste all my time cuz I be eatin these beats.
Listen you rats here just a captain me.
You ain't me homie you just act like me.
Well you should watch yo actions please.
Cuz there might be some casualties Augh augh
They about to witness it. Last Kings but I'm still on my Queen **** SCHWAG
Verse 4 (Tyga):
Aim aim at yo membrane just for sayin
I'm insane and your girl give me neck, Hang man.
I ain't playin, I never did lie.
Lay around and open yo thighs
****** gon pop like fish gonna fry
Nggas talkin greasy like the sh*t got slide WOW
High 5. Clap yo face. Change yo disguise, I work hard for the money. Money don't ever come in yo life.
A ******* right. When you lie, everybody wanna be just like.
Middle finger to the middle of yo eyes.
Young young Ty T-Raw need a Heisman Aaaahh
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
When news broke out that the glorious White Building
was to become dust to make way for a high rise
that would displace both bones and ghosts,
we were standing in a parking lot, my friends’ fists
clutched tight around their motorcycle handles,
their rapid Khmer lilting with each syllable
as they quickly planned a memorial service
for another shard of history that once did not have
blood dripping from where it had been broken.
My nickname was Country Girl, clueless and silly,
full of questions, songs and dances, a patched-up mess
with the face of a Vietnamese, the laugh of a Filipino,
and the pride of a maybe, sometimes, almost Khmer.
We left just as the city was starting to wake again.
In journalism school, they never taught us
how to grieve for ourselves, so we tried
in the best way we knew how -- a funeral procession
of worn rubber shoes and checkered polos,
in our backpacks the cameras that would write our eulogies for us.
I was the stranger whose connection to the deceased no one
understood, but still let in,
taught me a prayer,
offered some porridge.
That afternoon, I whispered a prayer.
White Building, who stares death in the face,
once a mother to the hands that had colored
their age gold, please welcome me.
Do not let your skeleton
collapse beneath the weight of this stranger.
Please, welcome me.
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 2:10 AM UTC
I have a cute Vietnamese girl
Shes witty, bright and sweet;
with dimples in her cheeks;
and shining stars in her teeth
Beneath her silky hair
there comes her beautiful eye
God, I love it when her big
bubble eyes are looking
at me
Her breath is like a flower blown, in fragrance and perfume
Her voice seems from the
blissful throne
Where their harps the
angel tune
And when she turns her
dimpled cheek towords me
for a kiss
I lose expression, cnt speak
And take all there is of a bliss! <3
----de3pak
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
(for Nietzche, who cowers behind art.)
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every night yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
when there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing.
Yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise.
The world called Canaanites ******
while they traded and toiled along the shores
of land promised to the aged heretic of Sumer,
whose wife could give only love.
The world called Hebrews ******
while they raised Pharoah tombs
Provided respite from the eastern chariots
Stubborn in refusal of the living gods
Drinking only Eloheim's bitter grape
That provides brief respite from his decrees
When delving deep in one's cups.
The world called Britons ******
When flogged Boudicea fought and fought and finally fell
To Roman spear and gladius
When Angles and Saxons raided then stayed
When Cromwell climbed the pale cliffs
The world called the Iberians, Gauls and Teutons ******
when Caesar crossed the Rubicon
Pax Romana for Citizens born
Land for the wealthy, voting rights too
Taxes and tithes from their toil.
The world called the Khoikhoi of South Africa ******
From the VOC to fatal Apartheid
Up rose a man
The heart of the land
A man named Nelson Mandela.
The world called the Viet Minh ******
from Can Vong to Dien Bien Phu
'till they slogged howitzers above
to reign Napoleonic terror below.
And to them it was just
The American War
After the world called them
Vietnamese.
The world calls the conquered ******
to remember that the sun every day yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
When there is no guarantee, no promise, no sure thing
yet still it yearns
to rise, to rise, to rise
'though it never watches its own rising
undoing raiment of fading embers
swimming naked in the royal blue
bathing all with daily newborn naked glory
chasing the celestial tidal tease
that seems to wander where it please
reminding that all are born free
but can grow into ignorance
and be called ******
Seek truths
that hold in unity;
that provide nourishment
beneath the lash
allowing one
to rise, to rise, to rise.
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 9:01 AM UTC
When you approached me,
I was smoking a cigarette
listening to Macklemore
outside my favorite coffeeshop
in the rainy city
You said something,
but I didn't hear you,
so I removed my headphones
as you asked
"Could you help a veteran out
by giving him a cigarette?"
I said yes,
asked you where you had fought
you told me Saigon
"Oh yeah? Vietnam."
you looked at me
dressed in a coat
that was a color of blue
not found in nature
face of canyons
and told me
"We got those ******* good.
We did.
We got those ******* good.
Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
and you walked away.
I was stuck in a trance of
What the **** was that
and yeah,
we did get them
but I don't know if I'd lay down
Agent Orange
and call it "good"
Take Civil and Guerrilla warfare
and try to tie it next to butterflies
and welfare checks
I don't know
what you think is good
But me?
I can't find any other words
for 1.9 to 3.9 million casualties
in a war that should never have been fought
Than sad
and wrong
I wonder how many Vietnamese women
gave birth to half American babies
That they never wanted
that didn't even desire to participate
in the act
of child making
I wonder how many
Loved their children anyway
how many were honest with them
how many of those children burnt that odd color of blue
that should never exist in nature
But then again
neither should the bombs children are still unearthing
in the North
and South of Vietnam
I want to know how many of their parents
learned that American
is another word for a ************
How many of these parents
grew up telling their children
never trust an American
until you know where his gun is pointed
because he's always got it pointing somewhere
I want to know
If you would understand
where Saigon, now ** Chi Minh city
is on a map
if you had never fought there
Would you be on the streets of Portland
alone
asking a college kid
who was not alive
when you fought in Southeast Asia
for a cigarette
I wonder where are you going?
How many people did you ****
how many are you sorry
for killing?
and then I realize I really don't want to know.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Sometimes strange things happen.
In the afternoon mostly, after lunch and rest.
Today in was the morning.
A communist asked me
" Did I know the difference between Chinese communism and Vietnamese communism"?
To be honest..I did not.
This is the first time I had been asked this question.
A new experience.
I sensed a passion, a desire for me to answer.
We ascend from time-to-time.
So I said
" The characterization of the struggle"
I put effort into this.
Attention and love.
Was the communist satisfied?
I don't know
But we all learn to do necessary things.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
She took a slice of a rice paper
Hold it delicately ... careful not to break it
Expertly placed it on a plate..
Mixed the fresh salad, some noodles and shrimps
Nervously rolled it one by one, though...
All eyes are on her.. All ears are on her
She and her famous Rice paper ...the subject of attention..
... the rolls she promoted..
A traditional cuisine, a local pride
She dipped the rolls in some kind of fish sauce
Shyly she offered the delicacies to us..
We .. the so called “International people” were amused
this tantalizing Vietnamese cuisine..
Specially made in Vietnam.. only in Vietnam..
Rice paper rolls.. repeat the demonstration
Wet it with water..
Choose your favourite fillings... roll it and roll it..
Its done.. Its ready.. its super unique...
Fish sauce.. fish oil and dip one... dip another
one by one.. so sensational taste..
Looking so plain never you doubt the taste
Superdelicious!!
Yummy the Vietnamese Rice paper..
Only in Vietnam..
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.
Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.
It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.
on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.
Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.
No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 2:58 AM UTC
We are all dealing with it together
sitting on these chairs side by side.
Therapeutic Counselling; it's that general motion
that lonesome melancholy
Grieving people flocking together
likened to the Vietnamese phrase
'Same same, but different'
And every now and then,
Someone, quiet and
unassuming will
whisper words
That strikes
a chord
In your
heart
We're no longer playing those
single notes on repeat
Blame, pain, hurt and defeat
It resonates so deeply
A whole symphony erupts
In your lost thoughts
Dvořák final moments,
Notes cascading down your face.
Eyes wild, eager and hungry for more
tears, mingled with a melody of vulnerability of the human race
Beethoven Fidelio- an operatic shuddering possession. Body breaking, mind
astrewn. Rhythm of rapidly
crushing sanity
Tchaikovsky's Sixth
white keys masquerading as happiness overlaying the sound of
sombre black keys striking suffering
and grief and everything else in-between in the greying colours of your mind.
Music of your
stricken heart lost in
the underground,
In these chairs next to you
Woman who also grieves
With a warm embrace around your body
Our wet shoulders
Absorbing the sounds of your dying souls
Until we're playing a single courageous lullaby once more
Heal heal heal
And heal we shall
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 5:06 PM UTC
Remember that day we glided along rice fields,
me and you lagging at the back,
while the 12 of us pedaled bicycles?
The clouds drooled down daylight,
and I was feeling lonely and crap.
You glanced back on the road and waited. "You alright?"
your eyes said.
And we chatted about our problems, time chopping away on an x-asis,
as we passed fields, motorbikes, and watersheds.
Those shared moments every day
with you, our friends, and our Vietnamese teaching staff,
it aligned my universe like a human astrolabe.
I'm so glad our group traveled across the world,
riding bikes and drinking beer unbounded by maps.
It ***** being home now, far away. I miss you and I'm always bored.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Check it out see what melanin is about
To shine you embrace you
With multiple clues
That'll stiff you like a statue
So I'll be black as the sun and black as the moon
Black as Saturn rings and Jupiter's moon
Black as the Hennessey and the shadow in the room
Black like a smoking heart that can no longer consume
Black oxygen soon to be a black death
Lost breath finna be cooked like a black chef
Cajun fire blazin' So I can climb the
Ladder of black steps
diggin' deep formulates my black concepts
Black as Madonna tongue swift as an Iguana
Tail no fairytale black as the prison system filled with with
black hell
Black sin casted since our souls blackened
Black like thoughts you'll see once the skulls get the cracking
Black like the Vietnamese burned into the ashes piles of scented death just stacking
Black like the smoke from a chimney
So ya know fire is what's happening
Black like deaths clapping
Appraising souls swarming black hole
Preparing for rapturing
Black capturing black like the Billy Lee
Leading Washington
Fighting the Great Britain
During America's revolution
But no black solutions
Still tryna climb into a black institution
Black intuition
Hidden deep within wondering
If the Black Lord will forgive me of my sins
Let back of the black souls be watered and cleanse
Black like Boyz II Men tryna find a road that doesn't end
Black like storm pushing strong winds
Black like my ancestors forming hurricane across the desert ends
Black as Mahogany angled to perfection with black geometry
Black with knowledge of Dogon
Black Sirius like the Dog logo so long gone
Cuz black love is gone black vibes made from black lungs
Fill with black vibrations from.the mental gongs
Black like the law canonical stolen from my ancestors manual
Europeans ain't nothing but savage animals known to be cannibal
Check my black cerebral digging from my black celestrial
Dropped the sugar now I see the black extraterrestrial
Waving so I can jump into the black.mothership
And dip where no other brother live
Black as night sky line
black as heiron cooked under a spoon
Black as blueberry pie
Black as darkness in an empty heart filled with gloom.
Yo talk to em Yosef
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
On this 23rd day of December, 2013
Mikhail Kalashnikov is lying dead
In the coffin on the pyre
In Moscow the city of Russia
Away from Siberia his child hood home
Waiting to be buried by the people
His invention the Ak 47 and 74
Has not yet killed,
Good bye Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov
Son of Alexandra as you travel to land
Of the dead where a million of Rwandese in Africa
And million of the Vietnamese are now citizens
After having been shot dead by the AK47 and AK 74
You will not be lonely you glorious son of Russia,
You natural tinkering skills
Gave the world ubiquitous weapon
That has done wonders you looked on
Tell your gods where your poems you wrote are
The world is now free from your vice of the AK
Man can city now in peace and read your poetry
As the fettered politicians have no where
To get the weapons for mass peasant destruction,
Reveal to us the armoury in which you stuffed your poetry
as the gods of peace turn your guns into plowshare
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Half awake
dragging my legs down the stairs
found my sweet kitchen
through several yawns
and sleepy thoughts
Here's the seductive "Bombay Bread"
and a *** of Vietnamese strong Coffee
serve on the attractive kitchen table..
Breakfast everyone!!!
Bon appetit!
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:42 PM UTC
A sudden spark in the darkness;
the Old Man raises his head.
Planes,
he murmurs,
I flew planes once.
His vision drifts through me to
four Vietnamese pilots buried
in his memory and his sickness.
Planes,
he repeats.
His eyes go dark again,
twin contrails spread by the wind,
falling apart in the empty air
of dementia.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
I walk a path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes
Amuse my anecdotes,
I walk with break beats in my blood,
With brain waves pounding bass drums,
I got liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
To spin surges of synergy
Out of bottled up battles,
Even my baby rattles
Used to shake with rhythm.
Wars
Should pause for music.
The power of harmonic symphony
Just pimping me,
Creeping up through cracked sidewalks,
Wrapping shadows around legs,
Up hips to necks
As it grabs,
Just pimping me,
A dance floor ***** with
Peace in and of mind,
In circles of 32
Note by note,
That lump of emotion
In my throat
Could choke,
With neon freedom.
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
That we could put down the guns
And rave to the drums,
That even silencers will be silent,
And the smell of gunpowder
Will squander for an hour,
That there will be a day with no death,
A day free of neurotic nail biting mothers
Holding their breath,
That their children will walk our land again,
A day that suicide bombs
Won’t detonate,
That cries of loss and sadness
Won’t resonate,
A day that we won’t decimate,
Our own race,
The human race
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
But that’s my pipe dream.
I’ve spanned seas to see,
That music brings harmony,
I’ve danced along
An African diplomat named Ife,
Which means love,
A Polish carpenter named Sebastian,
Which means dignity,
A Vietnamese banker named Ly,
Which means Lion,
And collectively,
We,
We're individuals,
Smiling to that same pumping beat,
That,
Breakbeat,
That brain wave pounding bass drum,
That strum laced
With a graceful hum,
Making our race numb,
There was no color,
There was no history
Because my history
Won’t dictate me,
Not that it's non-existent,
Not that I’m resistant
To believe that people hate
Because of the past,
But I understand personalities,
And believe
Everyone deserves a fair shot
At being an individual
Everyone deserves that music,
Everyone deserves to have
That path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes,
Amuse their anecdotes,
Everyone deserves to feel
Breakbeats in their blood,
And brain waves pounding bass drums,
Those liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
That spin surges of synergy,
Everyone deserves what we have to offer,
Everyone deserves,
To dance to their own breakbeat
Of peace
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC