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Tuesday, February 28, 2012

The Friend ZONE

Ahhhhh im in the friend zone, Shyt if I woulda, coulda, shoulda...​I woulda been bone. Now im in this tight knit fit called the friend zone. I called you like three times, I'm texting you like crazy, and all you wanna talk about is how your ex drives you crazy!!! It's ironic thru my passes I give give em back...ohh how fucking platonic! You right, maybe we should just be friends like musiq said, but I rather send you smoke signals keep you guessing while knowing the answer... This ain't no fling thing, and  if only you knew how on my nights alone, I phone each is own, I'm trapped...​it's too late I'm in the friend zone. I would love to tell you I'm listening to your bickering, about how  "he always lying,then you start crying, damn I look up and its 5 o' the morning...​"what you think I should do?" you ask..." my inner pixie says are you crazy DEAD HIS ASS!. and what I get from this deflated conversati​on...a hard dick and a wet dream yeah what a fucking sensation!  (Smh) seems as though my mind has warmed out its welcome, why thank you for not allowing me to further waste future time. But the Sade' in you got my mind straight trippin'...​Shyt this damn friend me hallucinat​ing, hoping you answer the phone when I call, you tellin me that i am the one you want...shyt thats all and not wishing it was him instead...but for now I guess I'll be that friend that you need to listen...n​aw but for real we cant me more than friends tho? Ohh I get can't hear me... Im in the friend zone, zone, zone, zone, zone, zone...

Monday, February 27, 2012

The ART of Letting GO

The pride that I have within the stroke of my paint brush that I ever so gently I try, I try to illustrate a past that I can somehow conceive in my present. My mind fails to realize that... the heart that pounds in the left breast of me... kills my curiousity, it plagues my depleted emotional existence, I swim in the coldest, deepest of oceans trying to find that one potion of my one true self... letting go...searching for that one method of letting go...o the memories... That I have grown to be so fond of controls my rattled hand as I try to dismantle the handle in my every stroke... It seems that I am now drawn to inconceivable conclusions, I am lead by clouds of disillusions. But its only my own shroud of memory that allows me to forget what I have always failed to remember...I have drawn the only infallible conclusion...The art of letting go.

Write To Make It Right!

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Death to the Poet

Death to the Poet

On his deathbed, the poet force fed me all his knowledge, all his wisdom upon my waxed clogged ears.  We sat for hours talking, while he reminisced on times that were not prevalent to mine…he spoke of Langston Hughes, the muse in his melodic tone, he approached every conjured thought as if it were his last breath. I felt a sense of remorse in some sort…where was this poet’s family and friends…no wife no children to claim love that he so vehemently needed. All his thoughts and love were left on pages instead. His pain and anguish were embedded in his head, I asked hesitantly, what made you live the life of a hermit in such a peaceful accord. He hoarsely said, “Because nobody likes to hang with the poet”. The life I lead no one appreciates in English language, I use poetry as my translator for those who choose not to understand. “I premeditated my life on paper and lived it in my head”…he said. My hands holding face, as an eager toddler learning morning medleys. I couldn’t fathom the life he led; he then asked me a question sickly “what are your goals and values my son” (coughing). I could not reply, no answer I could invoke to satisfy his curiosity. The blasphemy I followed throughout my life steered the tears to fall from my mask I have worn throughout my process I called living. In the poets room, there were pictures of famous jazz musicians, Coltrane, Miles Davis, Dizzy (Gillespie), even pictures of contemporary artist like Marley and Tupac. He saw the amazement in my eyes as I looked around the room of pictures, the poet said, “you see those people, they all in some way were poets…some had a way of expressing their thoughts, Miles did it through a saxophone, if you listen well enough, you can hear the wales as it cried…I pictured myself in that very thought of song…listening to Take 5. Sitting on my grandmother’s stoop in Harlem between 136th street and Lenox Avenue, pan pan’s restaurant was right across the street at the time. I closed my eyes and saw grandma in my black vision in a Smokey montage. The poet then said, “you see my son everybody has a story, everyone has different ways to convey that story, everyone has a chance to impact the world my son…but not too many people can sustain such impact” the plethora of information I was getting from him, I thought for that moment why me?  (coughing) the poet asked me…” you are a poet, are you not. I stammer in my response…I, I, yes I am. He then proclaimed to me…”never let anyone tell you that you are not what you have already believed yourself to be”. Poetry died that night, leaving behind no widow to reminisce, no children to carry on a legacy; he only left behind thought…his words…and a poet. Poetry died that night…and it was revived shortly after.

Write to Make it Right!

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Sleeping With Jealousy

I tend to never sleep in the bed I have made, I often contemplate why I should, am I too ashamed to blame myself for what has occurred. Naw not exactly…I grow…acceptance to your past, as I hope you do mine, I can’t imagine the fact that you were once a virgin in someone else’s eyes, I can’t seem to shake you were once the dream of someone else, that you were once the apple in the pupil of another. Naw not selfish, maybe self-less, shameless even, na├»ve to the thought of my senseless, hapless jealous ego.  I never question my own path of trust, but to live is to trust and to love to lust. I cringe over the touches of another. I can’t lie to myself though for this world no one walks in a path of perfection. I proclaim my acceptance… I neglect my competence of sincerity. Never been to obsessive, cant possess what I never had a tight grip on in the first place, you look me in the face I and I believe everything I know to be true, or do I care to know at all.  All in all I know nothing…and anything worth knowing…is allowing it to be confessed…. not discovered. I guess my own perceptions…are the same conceptions you expect from me…I guess it’s the jealousy in me that makes me rest in the bed…I never made.

Love, Parks and Montages

Sparks fly, the wind dies…down, no one is around except you and me. The birds stopped chirping, the rain halts, a since of gratitude concludes the very feeling that I have escaped since the morning glory of knowing that I will be seeing your face. Pleased to say that you make every day valentine’s day, you make your every presence…a present for it is Christmas at every glance. I love to dance with you as we promenade through today’s struggles. I love the way we sing our sorrows away. For the love of you…I stay true to the lies we shun, for our lives have yet to finish, for they have only just begun. The parks are flooded with children running in glee, the carefree gestures I dare to measure, I am at pleasure with the world as you are my equator, you spin me wide round… the sound of love astounds me, on cloud nine, I rewind to the part of our bliss, I fast forward past my misery of missing thee…. I pause the moments in time, hoping to see montages of your smile in my mind. Please forgive me for the time being of elementary ecstasy… allow me to be…me…for you…you are my childhood memory, you are every moment I remember from early Sunday dinners, you are my vivid imagination of what love means to me in my realm…as I awake from this daydream…sitting on this park bench I see you walk towards me and I smile as a lifetime had passed me by…

Monday, February 13, 2012

Tomorrow's Echo ( Evening Interlude)

Tomorrow’s Echo (Evening Interlude)

Tomorrow is never promised, but it promises you to relish in the light of today and stay within the realm of greatness. What wait for mediocre? I rather be responsible for molding the culture of know it all’s and for those who go through idiot withdraws. The peace in prevailing, the options in failing are never necessary, the primary consumer, consumes the very poison that cooks the recipe for their doom! I fall in trepidation to the day of reckoning; I often drift into a daze of remembrance, the care free lifestyle, mind running wild in the jungle of my thoughts…….my thoughts……my thoughts……my thoughts… thoughts

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Death to FAME

Put life in its proper perspective, fame fucks us all without contraceptives. I dispose of those who think fame brings worth a new name. Fuck it being a crying shame it's an all out catastrophe. You blame those blessed for being great, and then you are the first at the helm to bury their lives at the stake. The fake are hidden in between the limelights and you wonder why they are so bright. We lose the true meaning of privilege and state of celebrity, we let access Hollywood tell us the goods. You continue to Allow TMZ paint your portrait of reality, and then see how better off you'll be! You see Janet lost a brother, Whitney’s kids lost a mother, put their existence in its proper perspective. Fuck fame and whatever it stands for, we lose so many great ones at the bloody hands of fame and misfortune. But unfortunately they have us to blame... Yes indeed, we never saw their human side, we only cared that they catered to our every amusing need. So fuck fame and whatever it stands for. I hate the fact that when one makes it there are a million others who hate it, I guess it's what balances the two, but If it wasn't for HIM, there would be no them, no me, no you, ahhh so it is true we are just like them, yes indeed. We may not pay the same taxes, we may not have the VIP access, but we all have access to the same air! Lets do away with fame and whatever it stands for, may it contemplate suicide and shoot itself with the same gun that lead to Kurt Cobains demise. Fame let them go, let free Donnie Hathaway, let loose of Sam Cooke, be kind to Aaliyah, we need her, the hearts of many here on earth you left crying, why Phyllis Hyman? Why Marvin, allow them to continue to sing our souls revelations, bring back our TEMPTATIONS. Death to fame, I rebuke the truth of you ever existing. Give back the lives you’re misleading, give back what you have taken fame...because in essence all that fame is a name...

Death to FAME

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Writers Block 4:30am- 7:34am

The words in my head I can never spill on word! The thoughts in my head I can never utter into words, I let them rest instead. They speak to me often; they bounce off the walls of my emotions. I try to placebo my ego…it’s as though my mind is trapped, wrapped in simplicity I tend to a mindset of where I thought my mind had gone, it left a long time ago…along with all that was left in memory. In the abyss of this paper, where I bare my labor of hollowness. I forgot my quote, from my last note, and never mind what I wrote it’s what I have to say now…they find it hard to surrender.  If only it were that easy, no clever metaphors, no slick hyperboles. What I’m doing is congruent to the same struggle I juggle with on a daily basis, funny how one’s personal life can trickle down on paper and not have the gumption to convey…nothing to say, what state I’m in, NY do I care? It doesn’t pay to remain befuddled over a block of thoughts that revoke any stretch of…imagination…right? The plot thickens and I have yet to conjure up a main idea or frame of mind, body and conclusion…then it hit me….

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Contemplate to Be Great PT II (Ode To Steve Jobs)

  A far cry from the emotions I have withheld, I fathom the time of reconciliation with my feelings I have further let down. I am fond of my premonition, I hold sacred my intuition, I have revived what I have slayed into the red sea. I have become what I was most afraid to be. I have cried the rivers, I swam in my tears, BUT TODAY A stronger, newer me appears, the wrath in my speech, the grasp in my reach may not teach you, I pray that the preach in my psalm’s bestows belief in you….that you are true, you are real, far more tangible than what may proclaim to be just a figment of your imagination. But imagine a world without imagination; ponder a world without thought, without idea! The complexity of indifference, the irony in chance, lies in the contradictory state of FATE. The seams of which I have sewed into the threads of my cloth that rest upon the skin of me, you see the ceiling is the sky and glass that was once have full is now overflowing with hope and doubt, but aren’t they both one in the same? One survives by the foolish belief of some, and the other is survived by the belief of forfeiters. By the end of imagination, I will soon arrive from my coma, and have the aroma of success and passion fruit of life at my fingertips. I once closed my eyes and reopened them to a new world that I have missed…random thoughts of the coy dreamer…contemplate to be great…dare to be different in the same world that says difference is what makes us all the same!

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Dying Inspiration

 You said that you are alive...YET YOU were still dying inside.

Uncle SAM said I casSELL my soul for fortune and fame...just a couple of dollars never added up to the CHANGE that you gave to my birth name. But all I received was just the privilege to wear societies chain. I remembered from whence I came and let go of foolish acts and reacted to the proactive outbreaks in the midst of the streets! Indeed a rose grew from that there concrete... The rough edges around the fallen pedals left you there to stare in awe and pity...But why pity such a thing you barely know or fail to understand. I dare you to try...although I am endangered... A species not from this world... I am human ain't I? And like you I have flaws don't I? I am still what I am given, I am the atrocity of society…But you said you were alive…yet we are still dying inside