taking time to change

I'm going to take a new approach to this blog thing by just posting my rambling thoughts, instead of strictly poetry.... sooo here I go:

I realized that my hair is rather interesting looking (lol). I took a couple of minutes to flip through all of my facebook profile pictures and noticed that i have never looked consistent. I know many that would find this inconsistency foolish but I think it makes me... me. How many of us can really say that they honestly don't look like someone else??? I know that I can! I'm going to take pride in that.

I always encounter people that ask me why I went natural. At first I used to tell them that it was the only way my hair would grow. Then I used to say its only temporary and I would be getting a perm soon. Up until now I don't think I have ever answered that question correctly. So here's the real answer:

I have been natural and will always be natural because it is who I am. Not to say that my hair defines me, because it does not by any means define who I am. My hair is a part of me and it is real. This is who I am. Know that when you stand in front of me you will never have to guess what I really look like.

here's some of my hair pics, I will add more later

'girl boom'

looks like shes got girl
boom in her face, heavy breaths,
shouts, blank metaphors.

'untitled'

got a thought
itching like peeled paint
chips
cracked like pardoned doors
scratching a harder way out
skinned
scabbed
black, cracked like pardoned doors

time to catch up

Sooo... i have been slacking lately but i think i am going to force myself to catch up. Im just going to write randomly(hopefully this works)


'wilted'

hands over hairs on backs,
wrists cutting dried, leaves
skin wrapped around finger cracks

'take it.'

CUT HERE
----------
let me stencil with marks permanent,
perforate the edge of my ribs,
dip my scissors into flame.

let you induce pyro-listic visions of
warming a cold
heart,

fold back skin
dig it out then hold
it low,
so that I won't see

or faint before
falling
for you.

the lost children (unfinished)

Plans of a child soon shape old
as mother gave life to bold twins
irrationally joined at the
chest, head and hip.
Cursed with southern blood,
one had half the heart
the other half the brain
neither could be tamed
nor decide who was the accident.
Four legs and four arms
violently kicked and stabbed
and stabbed and kicked,
at each other they aimed
but themselves they hit.

They always fall short of a blessing
even with a church on every
crazed corner side, please pray
for the numbered children
they jealously shot short of mass
murder, grasp further
into a pride that divides
them-coincides them into
sibling rivalry,
cut them off with
a red-line, train
them to throw names then
induce fames to streets of
high and low range then
tack a sign on their
back: "lost".

so that their sisters will
see southern struggle beyond
their own trouble.

though this sign won't be enough to find
the heat of the twins identical, their egotistical
heads will bring a constant fight, their thirst
will see droughts at night, their bond
will allow no sight past peripheral,
a failing cycle reciprocal.

anthony (tipped)

{collab with tyler anew marie}

lost like words on tongues,

tipped. he's gone

more than his thoughts could rip
mouth could sip,
muttering words
on his jaws they dripped,
teeth he chipped trying to take the last sip

tipped. off your love

he's faded
syllables jaded with every swallow,
soon to follow a stumble so serenely placed
between the intoxicatingly clear idea
of your face,
faced with his face on the floor:
lips bent, drunken
intentions meant

tipped. and sore

painfully seeking
violently reaching for you and your
presence your comfort your essence
no longer his to hold
truths unfold, lies once told
are cold and sold
auctioned off to the masses
intertwine, no more
only emotional clashes

faded. and broken

breaking every inch of you not worth taking
shook and shaking whats
left, uncovering your skins
unmasking your breaths,
stealing whats left
until he's left
with the thought of you
unwind, no more
only emotional flashes

faded. and fading

into the silhouette
of dark as love crept
out of the hearts and into the hands
of the man that demands to be loved
seeking the approval of
those who gripped
and were ripped
from the arms of their better halves
snip, cut the chord

tipped. overboard

Erin (Aaron)

reached into side pocket
pulled out four dollars
brown wallet
lent

lent

3 keys

lent
letter to lover
crinkled
signed in pink
and
blue
next to
what was thought
to be her
and
him

3 keys

lent

lent
brown wallet
four dollars out pushed
into side pocket
to buy
a key ring

hands.

aren't meant to be held
but instead meant to melt skin
when holding just is

interview on red light

"where did you get those earrings?"
"my friend boy."

"for what occasion?"
"new beginnings and long hopes to erase his short cummings."

"how much are they worth?"
"five thousand."

"how much are you worth?"
"five hundred today."

"how many have you had?"
"...only two..."

"how many have had you?"
"seven six five."

"how do you feel?"
"with my mouth."

Jamal (for April 27th)

Jamal told me I was the
strongest person
he had ever met,

then kissed my neck
and burned his lips
from bitter sweat
then kissed my ears
and burned his lips
from what he heard,
then kissed my thigh

knowing it would get me high,
and make me forget
those eyes that pressed brusies

above my head

on my chest

under my belly.

Those eyes I've wished dead.

Then Jamal will own them
like they all have before,

then kiss my eyes
and burn his lips
from what he will see.

she's half empty still (collab #1)

{first collab with Josie and Kyre}

her palms clenched empty then turned cold,
broken, heavily armed with a soul unsold.
The currency of life
couldn't pay her hold
college girl
knowledge bound
yet socially so-so,
so she sits in her room
with the blinds shut tight,
wondering was this the right choice
did she win?
is the price right?

Home streets would call her,
but she won't pick up
those phones tapped with bother:
school's her half full cup.

But half empty still
she gotta cope with the ills
people, politics
acknowledge it
life ain't a thrill-
her boy Jackson
gave her action
Told her Mike
was the pill:
like Neo in the Matrix
choosing red just for the thrill

now she's no longer plain Jane
seemingly turned overnight
girls hatin, dudes hawking like
"Yo check Jane, she Aight!"

But the facade is weak
without the soul to seek,
so with this pill
she cured sick satisfaction
diagnosed just a fraction
of her cup empty still.

why it's over (for April 23rd)

I would have written your name
a thousand times

my pen spat out its last drop at line eight

my paper grew impatient of my
day dreamed blisters and cramped fingers:
for your sake

guess its fate.

real (for April 22)

what I've seen
left blank spots behind
my ears and
in the whites of my eyes

so I sit out on in
an empty lot

I sink my toes
into moist top soil
to see if I could feel

this grass and dirt is real
so they say

but I can't tell

eve

eve whispers sweet into nothing's ears
knowing he won't respond like silence after sour sights,
whispers of cold summers and lonely nights,
still he's nothing and nothing he hears.

lucky.

i'm done with
bruised knees and
dried closed hands pleading
for an end to my luck.

i see them
dried throats from
waterless weeks and hungered months.

at night I grab bread
then roll my eyes back
to see what the Lord has made.

shannon

shannon is 5 foot 4 times
likely to be 8 out at 13

since daddy's lips and mothers thighs have blessed her,
the demple in her right cheek and her freckled forehead
meant nothing but instead gave tall and dark and handsome
29 a hand, sometimes waist lines beat blood line beauty is
not deep but skinned of logics, tall dark handsome had some
before shannon was 4 for the same reasons he would take
her's from her and then more. but age ain't nothin but a
number.

shannon is 5 foot 4 times
likely to be 18 at 13

a knife

(for Sakia Gunn)

a knife cannot speak for a life.
its blade silenced
like the black community.
the air around it fills a void
called opposition,
alludes to an unavoidable odium
and suffocates the hand that holds
its handle,
threatening to cut fingers if
it isn’t used quickly.

jay

jay's got a new check
a new start this week
a new plate to keep
but no new j's
cause jay's got bills to pay

Poems for April 18th and 19th

1.
there is no real world
just falling mirages: black
blank like morning's fall

(no such thing- john mayer)

2.
A true drug
yes you are mine,
and everything that
comes with addiction,
cold stoned crack,
highs infinity.

As your words
melt into my ears
like candle to holder
I mold stiff:
one touch to move
and I run
one whisper to go
and I come.

heights higher than yours

because her backpack is strapped
10 times tighter on her back
than yours will ever
be, and
when tempted
she'd sleep with her books
though you will never
but sleep with those 'cooch' crooks
you will-
let them rob you, looks
like we have a winner
contestant number three passed her test
but can't eat dinner
moms can't send that monthly check
her friends seem to get
instead she sends her own check
home, so moms won't fret

so in that backpack
strapped so tightly on her back
are her obligations
and worries
and promises of dreams
unimaginable to her mother's
high school educated mind
or sister's and brother's
street kind

she'd find
no kind street
to make ends meet
but if she'd leap
forgetting no afters or befores
her reasons help her reach
heights higher than yours

april 8th limerick (16/30)

(for the poem I missed on my 19th birthday from having a little too much fun)

One more year screamed this day
so down my burdens I'd lay
I'd wished to be mean
lyrics like adele's 19
but instead bomb night had its say.

chicago please love me (unfinished) (15/30)

I admit to being a true Native
who praises thee and fights
that my Southside is better
than any Westside...

in hopes to cope with
both sides
that each hold trashed land
brown grass and brown skin
left to be trashed:

A simple fight we fight selfishly
to prove ourselves through
a learned helplessness
our mothers have taught us
when they ran to suburbia.

Don't abandon me or blow
sheets of your incurable
gentrification leaving me to
social suicide,
windy city.

Your smudge filled cracked corners
scream for my homecoming, the
hypocrisy in your cost draws me near, your
prices are something
I am willing to pay.

Chicago please love me
my urban paradox

Dear poem (14/30)

I wanna
read you then
lay my head back,
like that deep sleep on long weeks
or waking up to head on Thursday morning,
then reminisce on a classic that
feels something like
Poetic Justice.
yeah.

stop talking (13/30)

I can't read your mind
or your lips
but I know they are both cold
begging to be blessed by your breath
that bleeds much more bullshit
than your cut wrists might
on a Sunday night
and much more than my stomach ulcers
could handle in one setting
yet your steam creeps
through my q-tip cleared canals
like in one ear and out the other

the buttons (12/30)

there they were
lined up and ready to be undone
calling me and telling me
that they were worth more than
the 25 cents paid for.

and if they were to be
moved by me
they would defeat their purpose
be deemed worthless
and reveal much more
than I have bargained for.

there they were
lined up and ready to be undone
calling me showing me
that they can no longer win
that they kept him closed
and that they were worth more
than what I bargained for.

can't sing jazz to her friends [haiku] (11/30)

she feels her next note
more primitive than the first
lifeless like eggs whites

words of wisdom (10/30)

(Normally I use 6-8pm on Tuesday to take a quick nap but I guess I can learn something in my AFRO class)

Lesson number one was
written on an aged black chalkboard
in white jagged cursive:

"you can't carry the world's burdens on your shoulders."

the reason we speak only of the future,
the slogan for American society,
the poster child for hope.

stale chips (9/30)

Don't you hate it
when you walk into a room
and suddenly silence falls
and the air fades stale
like that old bag of Doritos
you wished you closed
but
lazily crumbled together instead?

Maybe if you used a clip
you wouldn't be so damn hungry
and so ready
to devour those hard chips...

or maybe if you screamed
to let them know who you were
before you opened
that purposely unlocked door
you wouldn't have felt so
quiet and stale...

and so ready to turn around
and run
and devour those hard chips.

Maybe you should have knocked first.

then issued Her a cane (8/30)

I apologize for not being able to sense your power and yield to its utmost strength.

Don’t tell me those stories you don’t speak of
Or secrets that purge through your veins.
Still is your mind as it floats among
An unintended river
Still like the rain was before her storm
A mind soaked and stuck

The force it took
To push back those streams
Your face could so easily render
Is something I did not see
In you and in them

And men became men
Or the men they would have never been
Before then

Despite the vigor of your will
Broken are your levies and your arms as
they cannot reach all of them.

If you only knew it was not you
who left them behind
Or crippled them then issued
Her a cane
as if she could not tread and stir
those troubled waters alone.

speaking of ice skating... (7/30)

my boyfriend is as dark as a hockey puck
really,
I gives no fuck
but he hates his luck


through his corneas
Dark is the bottom

Brown is in the middle
Light is on top


his teeth smile at my guise
then he looks up to see
a veneer of lightened skin


my place needs a trim
my chances are slim
I loft,
but I wish I could be down there with him

shuffle (6/30)

don't push my buttons...
just press play
so that this list
can make my pants
go south
with ease

first is the worst / rain checks on Christmas (5/30)

didn't know him to well
still took the punch
so he could swell
so I could tell
my friends I didn't thirst
anymore, I could face them
but the first is the worst
when there's no replacin'
the placement of his base, meant
to be or not to - syke
questions comments in the basement
some where he cannot trace it
behind the box where third base went
then wondered why his placed base hit
and then it hit me
coulda grabbed some some rubbers
but he wouldn't break a fifty
so now how is he sittin? straight shifty
he's been past the present
but was sure to stop by and gift me
8 months strong and heavy
bet you he won't try to lift me
now, kiss me now, taste this V now,
like vowels
he better write A I.O.U
for get about the E -asy way out
Cause he will owe me
for the next 3
times 6 years, plus this:
birthday parties and rain checks on Christmas

ignorance is freedom (4/30)

I smiled at my little cousin who thought
we could buy him whatever he wanted because
money was free...

Ignorance is freedom
it is peace of mind
and the answer
if i only knew of it
I could live effortlessly
but I see no sense in not knowing
so intelligence becomes
a never ending cycle
of failure

Little did he know
money isn't free
but it does buy freedom
how I'd wish to be as ignorant as he

same old old (3/30)

Saw Craig today for the first time in weeks
talked on bar runs last night
red eyes and left feet
how Sherry had to be carried home
on 6 feet and 6 inch heels
who he took home and who he didn't(couldn't)
and throw-back hoes
and who got chose
in this game we play Thursday Nights.
He hinted it would be me next time
I hinted a foot up his ass.
Laughed 'til 12:23
when the bus pulled up and cut words short.
Granted familiar goodbyes with hopes of playin Friday.
To class he went and there I waited.
Saw the wheels of the bus go round and round
playin same old same is the same old old.

sucka nigga (2/30)

feel the kick back beat loopin baritone tones
like
hey sucka nigga...whoever you are

and if you are
be sure to sleep on it
like sweet dreams re-seen
recite every meaningless word
like blank scripts
till we put it on repeat and
pull it apart put it back
hear it for the first time
say it

sucka nigga...nigga nigga?

form lips to try and spit it
lips cracked and chapped and nailed shut
shuts calm calls out
so scream it scream it

SUCKA NIGGA!...WHOEVER YOU ARE

release that heat that heat
let the stress leak
out your ears
catch it with your hands
hold it mold it throw it
use it as term of endearment
hate it while you find it
start to flinch as you try to say it
but
your lips are like a ooowop as u start to spray it

sucka nigga(to fade) nigga...nigga

holding this pen (1/30)

I am a complete hater
In every sense
When I see holding hands
Or clenching fists
that find and show a reason of use
I cannot

My pen can prove its point
but won’t give the world
Its verification
Unless they see or
begin to comprehend
my illegible chicken scratch

and if I grip and lift my pen
It becomes no mic
unamplified
and fails in comparison

So still I hate
Those hands that hold
More than my pen
can seem to make

a long way gone (to ishmael beah)

Their words, I feel
their words
through me they run
like tattered feet
swift and unkind to the eye
when rebels come by,
telling me what I know
and do not know,
cutting me like dry wind,
machetes,
surfacing from the corners
of my mind:
memories and memoirs
far from done,
showing me that this luck is
sparing me and unworthy am I
to wake up this morning
a long way gone.

cool?

Reality is shaped by perception

How do I not see
past your painted tees
and logo-ed caps that
scream more of the cool you
framed and less of the
originality you claimed?

I will try and perceive you more
than you would me
because I know that
the man makes the clothes
and the clothes make the man-
cooler than he will ever be...

and I wear rags
or what ever I could not make...

Tell me what you are and
I won't believe you
because I see you and
can't perceive meaning past those words

reign

Don't fall on
me or
Graze my skin
How I can't bare the burden of
Millions of your fighters,
One entity,
That clean me out

When outside I
am you and you I
Taste you I do
Mouth wide open I starve
But never grow thirst, carve
A hole in my chest
Before I drown, caress
My lips and my cheek
As I overflow, and my lungs creak
Ribs crack and inside seep
To the ground onto my feet
With the rest of you, that i could not throat,
I float
and you take over me, I
Am you and you I

Disguise my eyes
Wipe my tears clean
And rinse the salt trails
That track down my face
And leave me reason to believe
I had to surrender

f*ck you too

to anyone who thinks they can just
pick up a pen and
personify meaning
like its simplicity's brother...

f*ck you,

those who think a mic is made
to deliver a blank package...

f*ck you too.

don't even excuse my French
cause we've been speakin this
foreign language since day 6
after us came it
like words from our rib


we've pierced mental
then bled
in attempt to speak it
and write it
we become it
so that what we've shed
is dialect and definition...

never a small price paid in half
or overdue

so f*ck you
... and your paper-cut English too.

paying the sheet addict

they called her a deep fiend
a noted fanatic a sheet addict,
with her face in pillows
automatic static was a habit,
electric measures of endeavors
left notes musically classic,
range worth 5 times more than
his bread could basket,
and her body could modulate
in every sense: scales elastic,
no piece
could pass it
up,
and down,
she would sway and syncopate
indicate and accent-uate,
each rhythmical coin that hit the floor,
'til the beat was off then she'd ask for more,
'til her rent was paid and bills were sure,
or until her chords where resolved
and her mind deemed free:
when each harmonious moan
could live vicariously.

the hypocritical feministic type

Just because we've advanced
pushed our rights
pulled our stereotypes
birthed you and
established matriarchal standards
of standards you may
never believe...
doesn't mean
I'm gonna go
out of my way
to be the man in this,
know that
I'm a natural born feminist
(with a problematic male interest)

prove yourself
halfway meet me
then back up what you
mean...
cause i'm pretty clean
and many guys have liked what they've seen

used

you felt used
though circumstances
permitted me
to be so

the carelessness
of your
carelessness
is begging me to
care less nes-
ted are those thoughts
of me
bound and well rested,
and I know you slept
on them too...

maybe sleeping is all
you wanted to do

inadequate human capital

11pm
still on this computer
finishing up this
cover letter

qualifications that aren't really
qualifications

attempts to be seated
age appropriate:
supervisor

riddle me this:
what does a
50 yr. old man do if
he can't compose an email
after falling
3 years short
of college?

ask his daughter
to write his
resume.

Haiku #1 and to mother

Haiku #1
flowed like reaper's cape
and her name was Katrina
they spoke of her not

To Mother
I know of what you do not speak
and why we moved to
these small walls in
Bronzeville

I wish to see you
but your eyes
have seen much more
than my ears can handle

your closet
holds those shoe boxes
frames of faces
I cannot understand

and mother
I know of that
blade under your pillow
that once severed
your own
that time when
you were half past
twelve

I know of those sisters
who called you
as I do
and those brothers
who looked to you
as father
as I do

and you are
tired mother
how I wish to see you

touched me in my sleep

I knew it was you
who touched me in my sleep

you pinched my nerve
like you would my cheek
and pressed
a tumor of sorts

I could not wake
but the first stroke
was felt
right side numb
left without consciousness

what harsh gropes
hands make in the dark

in complete admiration
you fondled
an attempt to express
affection in its sincerity
instead succeeded to
infection in its vulgarity

and slumber could not cure me

girls on poetry

I will write out
every single emotion
I have felt today
despite the fact
that I will
probably feel differently
tomorrow
and did
in earlier yester-years

insert overused
unappreciated
adjective here

oh and don't forget
that he cheated on me too

let me reiterate
my confusion
and hint at his
existence
in an obviously
inconspicuous
manner

then I'll dabble
in Love and on Love
until
my heart can
regurgitate it no more

add a dash of
my overt desires
for reciprocity
with lines
depicting my soon
falling fate
into a pit of darkness

following an elaborate
self-impaling
soliloquy
that coincidentally
hints a sequel

obligations at most

obligations of satisfaction
are obligations still
even without the
extra weight
on that third finger

But they say it's
no task
though it's the
payment for
everything he gave and
everything he will

even when it's unnecessary
it is everything but

can't find
anything else to amount
or equal
his seeming altruism
that will leave you
satisfied