Maybe,
I’m not a poet
Maybe
this, is not a gift
Maybe
experiences I’ve had
that uplifted some,
was false.
But like some boss
I rise everyday
for history and family
to stay--
2 bedroom town-home
owner of all this.
Etch on my headstone
provider before father
for no pandemic,
lyrics of this life
we live
I want to work
and keep paying the bills
On time, my time
fatherhood a bitch
But relentless I am
in my quest
against the i am that i am,
am i, so competitive.
Poet without profit
Prophet without trees
It ain’t easy to find
stability in this
20/20 reality.
See, is was already
fucked,
before 19 hit,
45 had the country divided
like a playground
full of kids.
So this be my offering
for challenge of 30/30,
from cornfields
to the dirty, to
clean mountain air;
in the mirror I stare
& ponder…
maybe I’m not
a poet.
____________________________
Gonna place this
spoken word piece,
but slightly scared to
let voices ring,
ain’t been in rings
where voices fly free,
no one ever told me
how lock down
would level up
that level of
difficulty.
Or how social distancing
from that stage would be
so detrimental,
got my mental so mutilated
my dad box
is hated by the reflection
I see.
Oh, I see
says Dad’s ghost,
wish he were here to guide me
help me,
give some kind of
Z
words of advice,
I’m out here naked
trying to do what’s right.
And it ain’t easy,
like Pac said,
but now I’m Dad
trying to keep a peace
mentality.
Smoke too much
arguin’ too,
hey yo’ pops,
is this just a part of journey
du’(de)
Wanna step away, but
don’t trust this lady too much,
was this the way
you was feelin’
when you and mom’s situation
hit the dust?
I’m curious, I’m open
done with that reefer tokin’
I’m just tryin’ to understand…
what kind of hell did you went through
to become
such a hell of a man?
__________________________________
Say we,
all goin through it,
that covid-19,
where dreams of 2020
fucked up the seam.
Re-stitch, ain’t that
a bitch,
tear it up, throw out the thread
everyone’s fixin’s
a new lick.
New hustle, new side-piece,
new under the sun
everything.
But some is stable,
just batten down the
hatches
ensure animal safety
be key,
for others it’s being ‘bout them
veggies.
Cause that’s the next step right,
meat packin’ plants
shuttin’ down,
because sanitation efforts
is light.
No one’s right, we all
dead ass wrong,
no one’s been down this road
we all singin’ different songs.
Well this one here,
it’s for the soul,
locked out in the cold
in lay-off lines, 100 years untold,
if you don’t dig;
kids wiggin’ out online,
stressin’ out, not givin’ time to
studies,
smokin’ wit’ they buddies--
shit, we all just tryin’ to
get through this.
If you feelin’ pissed,
please,
take a breath deep
whether mama or daddy
auntie or uncle,
we ten toes deep,
in some shit we ain’t neva
been through.
So give yourself
a muthafuckin’ break.
________________________
If it’s 3 for the 27,
it’s nine times dope
deain’ with division
and multiplication for some
real ass hope.
But for four, there’s more
because 28 is in store and
this one might be the one
left over.
But tomorrow is like rover
on the dig for his,
so may not be no post, on the poetry
on the biz
On the most Apr got 30
for your dome,
almost home--
lost count sometime around
night before last,
that’s two times if you countin’
so this pen ink,
I’m hopin’ gon’ last.
For it’s 2 days left,
27 ain’t counted,
we ain’t roundin’
like corners, but if we were,
it be 90 degrees
like 20 year histories
we thought we’d be
better;
thought the weather would be
nice,
more than tryin’ to figure the
math life at 11:16 at night
remindin’ us of that tru love,
two behind the future’s past,
one minute later...nigga like me
just wanna laugh…
so go ‘head, and fuck with
that math.
No comments:
Post a Comment