HE DOESN'T WRITE ANYMORE

He doesn’t write anymore.

Before, he would wade in the water till the sea hurled to shore his words galore

But he’s internalized his hurt and his disdain remains unfurled

So I can no longer relate to his pain and heal him from the world.

He doesn’t write anymore.

As if he didn’t know I consumed his inscriptions of a thousand tongues like it was air to my lungs

And I could breathe in the echoes of a throng of his melodies

But his verses are missing from a song of memories

His lyrics no longer belong.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took a nap and woke up to a time his art no longer spoke

Like he broke his pen or lost the wave of its stroke

It’s like a curse I wish to revoke; so bewitch me, cloak me

Otherwise tear these blank sheets from his book, please

Un-produce them and re-erect the oak tree.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took the wrong course and got trapped behind the door of an unworthy cause

And his words have been held hostage lest taken by force

But he’s weak and addled, a tired horse without a saddle

He can only pray for help from a divine source.

He doesn’t write anymore

Though I wish he would.

I wish to inspire him from the ground up; I wish he stood.

I’d dish him food to nourish his mind up; I’d feed him good.

Just to inspire him to write a little bit more

I wish he would.

WHO I WRITE

Look past the comments and likes and tell me what you really like about the words that I write. 
Are they like your dark thoughts brought to light or slight light sparks seen at night? 
Does it bring sight to the blind or life to your mind or the kind of truth only words can find? 
Do my rhymes bind the broken times like a straight edge on dotted lines? 
Like lyrics fitted perfectly where melody chimes? 
Do I get through to you? 
Are my words a righteous life force that tells a story and inspire you to write yours in spite flaws 
Does it clear up your vision when your sight’s sore? 
Or hand you goals against the odds just to even the score? 
What do my words stand for? 
Do they take you back to what was to relive on past glory 
Or from history birth out a new story 
His story, her story, my story, your story 
Stories of the good, bad and the gory. 
Do I make you sappy, happy or sorry. 
Cripple you like a broken lorry
Or itch your feet to move to the groove you’ve refused to dance to because of those who’d disapprove. What do I sound like to you? 
Am I shy like a girl to her high school sweetheart? 
Daring and defiant like ghetto street art? 
Or do I creep up on you like Biggie used to do right after the beat starts. 
How dare I use I and Biggie in the same line though 
Pardon me, maybe I juggle a couple of words just so I seem smart.
My mind’s berated with questions making incisions in my brain 
My curiosity won’t refrain me from asking. 
Do you think I show you the real me or am I masking? 
Do I talk like I walk or am I just multi tasking? 
Who am I to you?

THE GRIM POET

The voices be taking over so loudly I want to scream SILENCE!!!

But I must admit my fear of them because they do sort of have a history of violence.

Sometimes my mind’s guilty of the most gruesome crimes

Blood slimes down imagination walls from skulls shattered against them

Scattered upon the floor, the bloody grimes

Plastered across the room like an imagery of the dark times

Ask yourself not whose skulls

Sometimes they’re mine, sometimes they’re yours

Very often they’re faceless.

Do not ask me the cause of this gracelessnesss

‘Cause sometimes it’s baseless

It thrives not from here nor there;

It’s from a place called Placeless.

The madness has officially begun

And the survival rate is from zero to none.

See I knew I found a friend when I picked up my pen

And I was open to some realism to believe in the concept of Zen

Then it turned out my new best friend was my enemy

And yet still I couldn’t shake off this bond because my enemy remained my best friend.

The tip of my pen had written in a peep hole into a prison of thoughts to my soul

Each word freeing a thought was a trigger for this hole to grow bigger

Now go figure why the incarcerated lot stole a glimpse of the outside world and have been dreaming of a freedom stroll ever since.

And they’re too vigorous to convince

I can’t seem to talk them out of their rigorous goal to break free

The role’s been taken from me

It’s like that decision’s no longer mine to make so what does that make me?

A puppet to my mind’s slavery to ink

I’ve been tossed into a pool of my darkest ideologies with the options to swim or to sink

Drinking in what I can’t shut my mouth to, I’m on the brink of a breakdown

‘Cause the voices be getting louder and louder

I need a structure to think.

But then the voices quiet down and I can’t stand it

The system doesn’t work quite the way I planned it

I’m a schizophrenic artist addicted to the lunacy and can’t unhand it

Mastering my art alternatively falling its victim

I’m a synonym to contradiction

Welcome to this poet’s revelation. 

THE WRITE ROAD

I never really liked myself when I was growing up

Always felt like that drop of water left settled at the bottom of the cup

Unspoken for and ignored to be thrown out against the pavement

A mental enslavement to abandonment never endorsed.

My face embossed with tears, droplets dropping without remorse

Forced to merge with the forces of darkness with no true meaning of who I really was;

A girl undiscovered.

Night times caught me shivering without the cold but alone so I slept uncovered

Suffered to the bone and taunted by the shadows that hovered

Haunted by the ghosts of the unknown.

Most days were a daze treading passages built like a maze preceding my own amazement when I made it home

My bathroom mirror revealing a girl who stood inferior to her own reflection

Unforgiving to her errors oblivious to the greatness of her true person.

Confused by the blues of a girl standing in a woman’s shoes unable to choose the tools that separates her from the fools.

My heart beat me till I bruised.

The clock took stock of time with each tick tock interlocked with unwelcomed thoughts held deeper inside

My insides an intricate design of intestines and discomfort intertwined.

Those were the days of yesteryears when matter stood master over my mind.

Spent that portion of my youth in the pursuit of truth in all the wrong places I could find.

And then I wrote…

Morning came and joy did not always follow but I wrote away the sorrows and swallowed the reality pills held hostage in my throat

I stood president over my affairs when it became apparent that it only entailed that I afford myself the vote

Time after time of jotting my quotes in little notes encouraged the self actualization that I was more than I gave myself credit for

Ink gave me a platform to think and when I would close my eyes in a blink words instead of tears synced with my paper

Who knew a pen could mend the break in time unend and send the negativity away to fend for herself because I would no longer feed her

Not a writer, nor a poet, more of a thought projector

I write to bare my whole being just in order to protect her

If I were able to label these words I’d name them my soul protector.

My imagination bursts with color and relieves my thoughts of its solidarity to the comfort zone

Finally I’ve grown into my own and reaped some wisdom from what little seeds of words I have sown.

I PAINT

I want to paint an abstract picture

That speaks words of poetry and quotes scripture

Mesmerize you with hues that could maybe bewitch ya

Shade your dark skies with blues 

And introduce to you brighter future.

Cheers to a new culture

A new day where the lay bird fears not the vulture

Nor eagles, nor hawks, nor the angry fist of nature.

Here lies traces of red, blue, green and yellow

Pink, brown, orange and all the tints that follow

Goodbye to mediocrity and things that shallow

And to depth and the impossible, we greet “hello”.

Pick up your brush and paint with me

The world is our canvas rightfully.