My Pen. My Train. My Name (Freestyle Poem)

I'll bet Conroy, Pat felt trapped in a taboo world when he fell in love with a Black girl.
Met her on a train.
Didn't know her name.
Disappeared quicker than she came, like an apparition.
Heat-induced visions.
Mirages.
Communists in colleges.
Psychologists.
Misogynists.
Retired Friars, fired, prior to Providence.
Some are shakers.
Some are movers.
Some are sayers.
Some are doers.
Some play when they maneuver.
Cuss words pointed at shapes of J. Edgar Hoover.
Some wear Armani, like they're Toomer.
Approached by Army recruiters.
There's an accuser.
Who's the shooter?
There's a girl in Aruba.
Had to school her, like I knew her.
While the red is getting redder and the blue is getting bluer.
Got gang signs on my mind and liquid in my veins.
I'm an Invisible Man, like Ellison.
Baldwin, James.
Nobody Knows My Name.
My pen is mightier than your sword.
Ignore the score and cherish the day---like July 28th.
They should have left me where they found me.
Hunted me for the bounty.
Break my knees.
Slit my wrists.
And I bleed Wyandotte County.
And they say high IQs and loose screws makes a cute dude crazy.
My review's incomplete.
Suspense has got me waiting.
Discriminating.
My rating's originating in the 80s.
Which makes me an 80s baby.
118 degrees outside.
Hasn't been in the 80s lately.
My pen hates me and it's told me as much.
When I hold it, I clutch with five fingers.
I write through wringers.
Legacies run like DMC and pantyhose.
A snot nose.
With my eyes closed, I wrote my first poem when I was eight, in my head, sitting in detention.
Learned to escape, like space.
A new dimension.
Born to be great and release this state of tension.
Dale and I used to sit on the fence and...
Just.
Dream.
Little did we know, they'd be more real than they seemed at the time.
We finish at the beginning and we start at the end.
Which leads us to the middle.
One boy. One voice. One man. One pen.

----EOB.