1975-Present"If Ghandi can forgive persecution surely you can forgive me for being so petty...I'm only human."---India Arie
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Celebration Of Life
1975-Present"If Ghandi can forgive persecution surely you can forgive me for being so petty...I'm only human."---India Arie
Friday, May 1, 2009
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Freestyle Poem)
I know why the sun rises in the east, sets in the west. My heart's travel through a dangerous nest of glorification, the seconds of my days when each minute seemed to bounce like leather round balls. North to South. The wrong call, like pork into the mouth of a Muslim. I tripped over my own feet, and cussed them. Customs, I've brushed them off, like dirt on my shoulders. Over and over I've explained my life's synopsis.
Options, choices. I've discussed them in late night rendezvous with good friends. Wood bends in the presence of mutated gravity. I am not talented. I am not gifted. I am simply maximizing my potential. Wishing on a well. Simple philosophy tells us your body is a temple. And women have missed the class, re-took it and never passed. Fifth-year seniors with a filthier demeanor. Take a bath in tearful delusions and haven't come out feeling any cleaner. I put five minutes into this. Never have a chance to replenish my thoughts, with a lack of sleep. A tragedy of all sorts. A car crash. Slammed doors. A blood bath. Young lads, trapped in a burning store.
My sea never reached the port, or my blood never seeped through the sore. My dreams are rotten to the core. I will lead. I will follow, fulfill and restore. I never wanted to be you. I never wanted to see the truth. Twain said the truth dies while lies live forever. Placed in a phase, I escaped to a maze filled with haze. I search for the phantom. When your worth, for too long, lay in a search of numbers, no wonder things never seemed to add up.
I was going to offer the wrong thought, but I kept it. Sweet memories of what I left behind. The etiquette of an edifice that will never let me in.
I want to speak the words of 1,000 tongues.
Walk in the footsteps of 1,000 men.
Live 1,000 lives and die 1,000 deaths, only to be revived again.
I want to build a bridge. Future to the past. Break it down and build it again.
For I live. The words I speak, the thoughts I generate, created from my life's experiences, broken down and regurgitated into my mind.
And my mind won't connect with my flesh and my flesh won't mesh with my heart. My mind and flesh are at odds with my heart----and with my heart is where it all starts.
I left my problems, standing alone, 1,300 miles away. To the desert from the plains. If it died today, I would not visit the remains. Yet, I am reminded daily. I am the creator. I am the author of my own tale. I believe I will see the rewards. I pray I will not lose my faith. I pray to find a way.
Someone miles away is thinking of me. And I am thinking of them. When I write from the top of my head. I don't know what to expect. I cannot hide what I am feeling inside. My fingers construct a picture, painting an image seen much clearer.
I so desperately want to break it all down and build it again---with my pen. I want to write something so strong that the strongest of men will bend in pain. I want to write something, something like Revelations, which will beget blood in the sky, trickling, pouring like rain. My disguise is a sly smile and a soft-spoken tone of voice. Inside is my pain, my joy, my defeat and desire.
Aspiring minds are programmed to chase blue eyes, heels so high, connected to blonds with bodies shaped like Coke bottles. Despite what Chuck may say, you are a role model to the youth. Half a world away and I am still in love with Wyandotte County. In an infant stage, when I was thirsty, the 83rd street nursed me. The city which birthed me.
Can't find anyone worse than me. Yet I can't find anyone better.
The ending isn't the ending if there never was a beginning. And the beginning has no name if there never was a finish. A loser is not a loser, if there's no one there to win it. And this is never in existence if I wasn't alive to pen this.
As long as I can wake up, I'll give it all I have until there's nothing left. I'll keep living and fighting, seeing and believing, until God takes what's left and I stop breathing.
Options, choices. I've discussed them in late night rendezvous with good friends. Wood bends in the presence of mutated gravity. I am not talented. I am not gifted. I am simply maximizing my potential. Wishing on a well. Simple philosophy tells us your body is a temple. And women have missed the class, re-took it and never passed. Fifth-year seniors with a filthier demeanor. Take a bath in tearful delusions and haven't come out feeling any cleaner. I put five minutes into this. Never have a chance to replenish my thoughts, with a lack of sleep. A tragedy of all sorts. A car crash. Slammed doors. A blood bath. Young lads, trapped in a burning store.
My sea never reached the port, or my blood never seeped through the sore. My dreams are rotten to the core. I will lead. I will follow, fulfill and restore. I never wanted to be you. I never wanted to see the truth. Twain said the truth dies while lies live forever. Placed in a phase, I escaped to a maze filled with haze. I search for the phantom. When your worth, for too long, lay in a search of numbers, no wonder things never seemed to add up.
I was going to offer the wrong thought, but I kept it. Sweet memories of what I left behind. The etiquette of an edifice that will never let me in.
I want to speak the words of 1,000 tongues.
Walk in the footsteps of 1,000 men.
Live 1,000 lives and die 1,000 deaths, only to be revived again.
I want to build a bridge. Future to the past. Break it down and build it again.
For I live. The words I speak, the thoughts I generate, created from my life's experiences, broken down and regurgitated into my mind.
And my mind won't connect with my flesh and my flesh won't mesh with my heart. My mind and flesh are at odds with my heart----and with my heart is where it all starts.
I left my problems, standing alone, 1,300 miles away. To the desert from the plains. If it died today, I would not visit the remains. Yet, I am reminded daily. I am the creator. I am the author of my own tale. I believe I will see the rewards. I pray I will not lose my faith. I pray to find a way.
Someone miles away is thinking of me. And I am thinking of them. When I write from the top of my head. I don't know what to expect. I cannot hide what I am feeling inside. My fingers construct a picture, painting an image seen much clearer.
I so desperately want to break it all down and build it again---with my pen. I want to write something so strong that the strongest of men will bend in pain. I want to write something, something like Revelations, which will beget blood in the sky, trickling, pouring like rain. My disguise is a sly smile and a soft-spoken tone of voice. Inside is my pain, my joy, my defeat and desire.
Aspiring minds are programmed to chase blue eyes, heels so high, connected to blonds with bodies shaped like Coke bottles. Despite what Chuck may say, you are a role model to the youth. Half a world away and I am still in love with Wyandotte County. In an infant stage, when I was thirsty, the 83rd street nursed me. The city which birthed me.
Can't find anyone worse than me. Yet I can't find anyone better.
The ending isn't the ending if there never was a beginning. And the beginning has no name if there never was a finish. A loser is not a loser, if there's no one there to win it. And this is never in existence if I wasn't alive to pen this.
As long as I can wake up, I'll give it all I have until there's nothing left. I'll keep living and fighting, seeing and believing, until God takes what's left and I stop breathing.
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