The Creator

Over yonder, the creator ponders his very existence... Inauspicious despite the gloom of life looming down atop his very soul... He contemplates sanity after finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned right... Finding nothing left as he turned to write... Something wrong... With... Psyche... might be... slightly... Insane... His pen no longer bleeds, so in turn he's... In pain... Miscarried thoughts lay still-born in the distance of his cerebrum... Wrapping at his soul's chamber door... Begging to be heard, But instead they're only felt. Like love... he longed to define it... But couldn't... Too pedantic with the congestion of conjecture... Like the lessons of a lecture spoken by spurious professor... His profession was to profess the truth that others failed to articulate... Yet he couldn't seem to profess the truth about himself... Never a fiction writer were he, even if it appeared realistic to the untrained Iris... Yet at times our truths are just as difficult to express as a lie is... So in turn his page is silenced. Like the dialect of kindness amidst the fires of Hades... As cryptic and subliminal as papyrus scroll paintings, was his understanding of his own demise... The frustration of mediocrity that his ego once denied had overwhelmed him... Created in His image, but far from pseudonym, For He created the earth and it's inhabitants in a mere 7 days... While he's been writing for 7 whole hours, with merely 7 words on his page... For what he failed to realize was that he wasn't in fact The Creator... Instead mere creation the creator creates... He was once a conduit for the music of the heavens above, Until his crescendo's fall from grace... That night of the poets death... Lofty was his ego, And so too was hades fire, For his words were never in fact his own, The Creator was his ghostwriter...

There She Lay

As the sun surrendered to the horizon,

There She Lay…

Gazing at the sky through translucent lids, bestowing a hue of burgundy upon her mind…

The hustle and bustle of the metropolis drowned out her cries,

Like ocean waves drown out rain on a windy day,

There She Lay,

The windows to her soul tinted a hue of blue, By him.

That monster that she mistook for a man so many sunsets ago,

How she longs to gaze upon the sun again, with the same aw that she once did-

As a child, back when fatherless father’s promised fatherless daughters the world-

Yet merely left her looking upon the heavens thinking, why?

Why does no man love me?

Truth is, Some did…  However, when one is born in the dark, it becomes difficult for one to see the light, so…

There She Lay…

Her burgundy lids becoming purple as the only father that she ever knew, Father Time, starts to leave her… Just as so many others did…

This is the tragedy of her reality…

Little golden girl losing her luster-

Dulled by a world filled mindless gods than those with Godless minds…

There she lay, one last time…

Leaving this earth the same way that she arrived…

Cold,

Alone,

The only father that she ever had, Gone. Father time

Leaving her as so many fathers do,

With her mother…

There She Lay

With her mother, Earth.

Nirvanna

I exist in a place where all that is poetic is justice,

Sex is for lovers only, and all have experienced a love jones,

I exist in a place where life lives without anger,

Instead, we zone in a sentimental mood, serenaded by Coltrane, as Donnie sings a song for you,

I exist in a place where we hang in urban suites, and every man understands a true woman’s work,

Where our needs and wants are one in the same, and lust is the last emotion to emerge,

I exist in a place where the faithful dwell,

And beauty lies within the beholders eye,

And the only truths are those in which we believe, and fallacies are blatant lies,

I exist in a place where understanding’s conceived through intimate conversation, and where

Hatred and jealousy are created myths of the devil’s imagination…

I exist in a place where lovers love… and when where alive, we live our life,

I exist in a place where blessed emotions are felt whenever I look in your eyes…

I exist in paradise. 

The Demise of the Poetic

It was once stated that the ink of the scholar is more sacred than the blood of the martyr,

Hence, I didn’t write these words,

I became them,

Paper, my flesh…

Ink, My blood…

The finished product,

My soul…

With every stroke of the pen, it’s like a slit to the wrist, making my paper and life grow progressively shorter,

The more I write, the more I see the light as if the end were near,

Perhaps I am a martyr,

Who’s found heaven within his notebook, where I die every night for what I believe in…

Or perhaps it is my notebook where I am most alive,

Where the pages of my life are so eloquently scribed-

In pen,

Sometimes wishing that I could erase the past,

But I can’t,

So that makes this poem,

My life,

Who I am.

Selling Soul... Pt. 1

 I told her to play a love song…

She knew I loved the Hip Hop,

Needle touched the vinyl-

CL Smooth and the Pete Rock…

Black Griot like Aesop, she loved my fables,

My life is like a movie, I told her, No need for cable baby.

Cinematic, The black man Asiatic,

Don’t touch the dial-

Dumb, Deaf, and blind will raise the static,

I raise the status quo with this black magic flow,

Underground like in the basement where artist and addicts go

I took her with Blaq,

High like where Kilimanjaro peaks at,

Yet deep like the pages where Muhammad speaks at,

I don’t speak rap tongue, only that Hip Hop drum and when I beat it long enough,

She’s destined to come,

Clever lyrical,

Something like spiritual,

It broke her heart,

These minstrels top the chart?!?

She said, “Is this satirical or have we lost the art?”

I told her, “a little bit of both”,

Then Common Came out with “BE”,

Gave her a little bit of hope,

Yet in still-

I

Had

To,

Divorce soul, when she turned and married neo,

Breaking my heart and leaving me for ordinary people,

She said,

Rock was Dead and that

She had died with Marvin,

Donnie jumped out the window,

Renascence had died in Harlem,

So what’s a girl to do in this world to get some stardom?

Exploit herself to the top or dumb down and fall like autum?

She chose both,

To the disdain of what I taught her, She prostituted herself until everybody bought her,

Black girl lost to big business and fatter pocket’s, Mercedes Benzes, gold chains and Prada lockets,

My baby traded in old school for no school, old soul for no soul, fake thugs for real fools that forgot her story…

And fucked up her History, To the point that when she speaks, she no longer mentions me,

It seems by baby’s lost the greatness within her tone,

So now I’m afraid that I must divorce my soul…

 

   

Loving a Woman

From cocoon to butterfly,

She and I exchanged whispers of late night lullabies,

She is the truth amidst all the others lie’s,

The dream I see with opened eyes

My personal poet,

She showed me how to be a lover,

So in turn, to repay her, I now love her…

deeper than her thighs

More like heart and mind and soul,

My better half made this here brother whole,

When something was missing,

Now I feel more than lips touching when we’re kissing,

I feel her soul speaking and mine listening,

She makes my history her story, our story

She’s the muse for my music for my victory is her glory, and hers mine…

She’s mine and I’m hers,

As I hold her in the twilight,

She in turn holds on to my every word…

My nouns turn to verbs, making my thoughts action words, My nouns turn to verbs making my thoughts action words,

Turning my potential kinetic with her’s…

I’ve made her old soul hip hop again and she’s made my rhythm-less blues

funk infused…

Jazz for that ass that would leave Thelonious Monk amused,

She’s the Stella that gave me my groove back,

My fine wine in a world of cheap cognac,

Late at night I sip her,

Drunken off of her vibe like lovers of liquor,

She speaks to me,

While these other girls bicker,

When she’s gone I miss her,

Late at night, Distant Lover listener,

Rose pedal picker,

Honey suckle sipper,

That turned this female fanatic into a hopeless romantic with simply a whisper,

Go figure…

All this time to become a brother all I needed was a sister,

All this time to become a man all I needed a was a wo-man…

A misses to become a mister…

These girls couldn’t do it…

Didn’t have the depth to inspire my music…

Nothing more than empty riff’s,

Shaped like a treble cleft she takes my breath when she moves her hips,

Shaped like a treble cleft she takes my breath when she moves her hips,

She is my star,

Our celestial bodies intertwine like procreation of Venus and Mars

In my dreams she and the heavens are as similar as similes are…

In my dreams she and the heavens are as similar as similes are…

 

When she’s afar,

I speak to her in soliloquy bars,

Talking in tongues spiritual drums beating from the heavens above…

My mother earth blowing breath into my lungs in the form of a morning breeze

Exuding the beauty of Michigan, autumn, Maple tree leaves,

The most beautiful hues, I envision,

As she dances and entrances my third eye vision,

We communicate in the language of love,

And I listen…

Entrance me, sister in that sundress,

 

With skin tone’s of African Sunsets,

 

And the scent African violets

 

Vibes to make my sun rise, like one of Angelou’s best,

 

With her moon,

 

Being an inch from my queen is of equal distance from heaven for she’s my ticket out of this monotonous hell,

She showed me to rise in love, forget those others who’ve fell,

Fallen for the superficial,

She completes me as my pad completes my pencil,

She’s etched her hieroglyphics permanently on the walls of my heart with her stencil,

Etched her hieroglyphics permanently on the walls of my heart with her strencil,

 

Inspiring the passion of a Coltrane instrumental,

 

Look at her,

She is my soul… no need to gaze through my  windows…

 

For when you see her, you see my soul coming,

 

You hear my heart?

 

You feel my soul drumming?

 

When I touch her,

 

You feel my pain numbing,

 

If ever you feel this…

 

You know what it is to love woman… 

Untitled

I’m stylish with the stylus,

Vocabulary longer than the Nile is so small talk is useless,

I speak on that level that’ll confuse Confucius,

My angles cover all bases as if obtuse, it’s…

The type of shit that’ll spark a revolution,

Guevara with the pen searching for a revolution,

Living for the moment, to hell with the conclusion,

Motorcycle diaries with kush inside my Cuban,

Turn up the music, my words beautifully human,

Nat Turner 2007, nuance the movement,

Revolutionaries keep a hammer in the tool kit,

Ain’t too many that move with the force that I move with,

I’m far from a nigger be it kin or racial slur,

Spit hotter than Lucifer wearing an exclusive fur,

I’m out of this world,

Got a sister on Jupiter,

I call her my old earth,

Penny for my thoughts, don’t insult my words worth,

My diction is priceless,

I’ve nice with the mic since Osiris loves Isis

 

 

The Chest of Hip Hop

In the chest of hip hop, there lies a hole…

Gapping like surgery of the open heart type…  African Drums, tumble and crumble and rumble, like mumbles of thunder in the jungle at night… 

You emit a light in the world full of darkness, never lost blackness,  never lost passion,  never lost facts,

Its hip-hop,

In the,

Purest form, deep like bass is… to make microphone fiends high like treble…

In the chest of hip hop lay the rhythm and the rebel,

The good, the bad, ugly,

The god the human, the devil,

 you wordlessly spoke on the truest of levels…

With the passion of a manage… You paint a collage that would make Picasso blush…

You touched us with pro-tools the way he did with brush…  You made love to the track, while others simply lust…

See, “You are love… You made it unselfish, made us feel empowered at the same time helpless…”   your ruff draft is beauty,

 beauty like black is…

how you empower the weak and made the underground respected by the masses, like Joe Luis did and in later years Cashis,

you spoke to, proletariat, so serious , soulquarians, Aquarius,  in the chest of hip hop there lies a hole, dripping wetter than aquariums,

You filled that hole with the soul that can’t be sampled, can’t be contained, can’t be handled by anything earthly…

You welcomed the world to Detroit then took us on a fantastic voyage through the village of slums,

with more muse than the middle passage… and because 1 wouldn’t do and 2 was not enough for you no…

You worked as a slave to the art…

Your plantation?   The studio. 

You made us go nut’s in this age of shining rims on donuts, you hit us with the soul of The Shining then Donuts…

Hip Hop, you never sold it out, yet and still, you sold us,

on that which some pronounce deceased,

Yet, even though you’re gone and it’s gone… you and it still lives through your beats…   

 In the chest of hip hop, there lies a hole…

When you passed, so did its heart, but you left us with its soul…

But where’s the love????

There’s no love…

Scuffed Tims

I’ve scuffed my Tims on the boulevard of broken dreams and such,

During sleepless nights where brothers like us don’t dream that much,

In the third world,

The one down the street from the metropolis,

Around the corner from the burbs so the cops are watching us,

Dwelling in the “City of Gods”,

No subtitles to this flick though,

Same ol’ nigger shit,                               

Just that Hip Hop replaced calypso,
Bums digging for crumbs,

Fiends thievery and schemes,

I’ve scuffed my Tims on the boulevard of many a broken dreams,

 

The ghetto has been my canvass,

The paint has been my blood,

My daddy left my mommy,

So I was never taught to love,

The world could never understand us,

We rebel’s without a cause,

Black Gods, Latin Kings, No Justice in White Laws,

 

                                                                             

I’ve killed with the killers,

Dealt with the dealers,

I’ve been called a porch monkey,

I’ve hung with gorillas,

I’ve hustled with the hustlers,

I’ve shot with the shooters,

I’ve won with the winners,

I’ve lost with the losers,

I’ve been a bum digging for crumbs,

Fiends thievery and schemes,

I’ve scuffed my Tims on the boulevard of many a broken dreams,

 

Prolitariate still,

Steering Cadillac wheels,

Rat a Tat from the steel,

As the envious kill,

Bougie don’t share their wealth,

Only caring for delf,

Seems that we’ve lost our village,

Seems that we’ve lost ourself,

 

Proletariat still, get me

Steering Cadillac wheels, quickly

Rat a tat from the steel, miss me

As the envious kill, many

Bougie don’t share their wealth, really

Only caring for delf, sinning

Seems that we’ve lost our village, Completely

Seems that we’ve lost ourself, reach me

 

Reach Us who’ve

scuffed their Tims on the boulevard of broken dreams and such,

During sleepless nights where brothers like us don’t dream that much,

In the third world,

The one down the street from the metropolis,

Around the corner from the burbs so the cops are watching us,

Dwelling in the “City of Gods”,

No subtitles to this flick though,

Same ol’ nigger shit,                               

Just that Hip Hop replaced calypso,
Bums digging for crumbs,

Fiends thievery and schemes,

I’ve scuffed my Tims on the boulevard of many a broken dreams…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Him

How do I convince you of an emotion that you don’t believe exists?

How do I tell you that I want to take you to a place that you swear you’ve never seen and never been, but once believed that you were in way back when…

How do I make that place real to you again?

Before the lies of other men and your sons fathers sins…

Back when all you needed was three words to make your life content,

But those three words were misused, abused, and misspoken-

And left unspoken, so when I speak them you think that I’m joking, but-

I mean them from the bottom of the organ that he left broken…

But you, you’ll never know this because this dream of mine was stolen by, Him…

That half a man that you swore to be a whole one,

And that half a man, he took half your soul so now your more content with no one-

Than risking it all again…

For someone that looks like Him,

And someone that speaks like Him,

And someone that feels like Him,

But someone he’s  never been, for…

That emotion that you don’t believe exist is too in fact very real-

It just didn’t exist within Him,

And that place that you swore to be a dream is also real,

It’s just that he has never been, so he didn’t know how to get there with you…

But me, I do…

So the question is not if we can go…

The question is more like, When?

Can I love you?

Fuck Falling in Love

Fuck falling in love,
When will we learn to rise in it?        

Let us no longer love blindly,
Let's open our eyes in it,
Hearts cannot think and minds cannot break,
Envision love with your mind's eye and do not blink...
Let's not dwell on sleeping together,
But instead let us stay awake,
In the night,
‘til the morning,
Let's vanquish the mourning,
Do away with human mistakes,
Who are we to meddle in what God creates?
What Ignorant fools humans are to transform their destiny to fate...

Fuck falling in love,
Let us rise above,
this world and all its evils...
The devil and all his sequels,
Jezzebelle's and all her equals

For no one can touch the untouchable,
Let this crush of ours, crush the uncrushable...
Promise to never fall in love with me,
But instead let's rise until untouchable...