giving birth to corpses. Who
will speak for the dead?
Your smile
Was
My melody
My lyric
My expression
But the day
You ceased
Smiling
I lost my song…
Full of
Emotions
Words
Jargons
With no one around
But my notebook
And his companion…
My pencil
So…
We three became
Acquainted
And soon
Started a love affair
A threesome
In which I
Consistently mourn your absence
Yet rejoice in your eternal rest
If you
Left no
Unspoken void in me
I would have
Ignored
them
Thank You.
We miss you. I miss you.Jagged
Scratches across vinyl
Speak to natives like hieroglyphics
Retelling a history and preserving an inheritance
From one generation to the next
Equipping young hands:
Microphones
With black paint
Chipping away in spots where they
Were once
Gripped.
Clutched and driven.
Personifying rage and amplifying truth.
[This proves Hip Hop has Soul.]
Picks
Strumming lightly
Onto strings.
Clearing its throat.
Sending vibrations through low rumbles or high cries.
Preparation to rally with the oppressed
And empathize with the tortured.
A sea of hands wave left to right in agreement.
Sharp
Like sandpaper
And boomin' like thunder.
Drum sets prey on emotion
At its rawest.
Sticks strike. Setting off explosions.
Land mines of sound.
A power given and a presence commanded.
[Feels like Rock really can be Hip.]
Scatted
Consonants trip ears with their theatrical tactics
Hummed vowels pressed out of pursed lips
Carry listeners through highs and lows.
Revealing melodic epiphanies
And healing societal schisms with
Love.
Sober-eyed "preachers".
Ministers of the earth-toned cloth
Stand with feet planted
Fluent in sign language
Whether it be two fingers; side by side
Or an enclosed fist raised proudly
[See? Soul can Rock it, after all.]
Giving you:
Hip-Rock-Soul.
First, the man with whom I was initially acquainted to: The Poet.i run my hands across your poetry book.
feeling its texture
as you once did
my hands are where your hands
were
so...it's like you are touching ME.
i thumb through the pages in your poetry book.
one by one.
imagining that each new page is
as promising to me as they were to you
once
and you hold nothing back
so...it's like you're filling my empty spaces
i trace my fingers across the words written on the pages in your poetry book
left to right
block stanzas
to jagged lines
one after the other
as if my hand is holding
the pen that you held
to write these words
so...it's like you are holding me
...lay me. across your lap.
touch me. search me.
fill. complete me.
and hold me...
...like I am your poetry book.
Second, there is the one that consistently surprises me:"A Hangover's Daydream'
2007
I see silhouettes of lovers holding hands, exchanging gazes, and
Merging hearts.
At this flaunt of emerging and bursting love,
I smile and I concur.
Sneaky public displays and quaint duos tangled in fondness
Only generate memories that hint at my own affair.
Warmth is meticulously duplicated inside of me
[Taken from the eyes of those who have made the same discovery
As I]
And is spread from end to end.
My wit became congested
Morphing the very spot where I stood.
Distorted and blinking I look around
Thinking I sensed his scent and
Felt the brush of his fingertips next to my cheek.
Taken aback I staggered
Drunk from affection
Inebriated due to the reminiscence of my love's presence
Lacking all sobriety
I collect each piece of my recollections of him and
Stumble my way towards the place he resides
To make our dream reality.
Lastly, the part that has come to be the foundation of our relationship: The Jedi."He.Be.Revolution."
I've touched the hands
of a revolutionary.
a man.
and a catalyst
for change.
I've kissed the lips
of a revolutionary.
a force.
a potential name
for legacies.
Not one amongst
the legions of those
bound by the streets
and chained to a mindset
he pumps his fist
yes
but he's holding
a pen.
a mic.
He's the epitome
of Black Pride.
Malcolm's Pride.
Martin's Pride.
Mother's Pride.
Nonviolent ferocity.
Knowledgeable Grandeur.
Confusing the masses
Because he maneuvers just fine without
The gun on his hip
And the chip on his shoulder.
Never whining.
Pointing no fingers
and expecting no hand-outs.
He moves.
He molds.
He is.
With feet firm.
His convictions are deeply rooted.
Eyes focused.
His sights see beyond the Struggle.
His age inconsistent
of his wisdom
But oh. How his father
his eyes were just as clear.
He doesn't just know of revolution
or hope for revolution
or front with the cap wearin' and slogan shoutin' revolution
But
He thinks revolution
Sees revolution
Speaks revolution
and
IS revolution
I'm loved by the spirit of
a revolutionary.
A heart
too good for this world.
into the hallway, I met her eyes. And that moment changed my whole perspective that I had been previously, if only temporarily, carrying.
He is everything God knew I would need in a best friend. I see a reflection of God's heart for my life each time he looks at me: without one ounce of pretense, dishonesty, and condition. I've never been in a relationship where we try to outdo one another in love. Never have I felt such a freedom in God's timing [for my love life especially]. Paul says in Philippians 4:12, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."I have known what it is like to suffer in a relationship. To give so much of yourself and getting nothing back. I thank God for those times. Heartache has been my greatest teacher. Not in technique, necessarily, but in having a teachable spirit.