Angela Khristin Brown is a published poet of 20 years. Angela is a writer, journalist, cultural and political activist, a curator, a essayist, a novelist, an educator, a song writer and a play writer. She has been published in magazines, books, anthologies, newspapers and online. She writes all forms of poetry. Angela writes about cultural issues faced in society today. She considers herself a hybrid poet. Angela has won book awards and the ambassador poet award, fellow poet award, noble laureate poet award, poet scholar award, who’s who in poetry award, poet hall of fame award and poet of merit award. Angela has published 10 books of poetry.
The Will to Write
Starvation; driven
A lost for words
A hornets nest yearning desire
An anticipated game of scrabble
Memories of twisted fate
Caressing the mind with images
Of eulogy
An anticipated game of scrabble
Depravity controls
Convections conceived in thought
Filtered letters dance
An anticipated game of scrabble
Serenading word clusters
from a rehearsed psalm
Colorful ink imprints fade
An anticipated game of scrabble
Its fallen premise
Yearning desire
Abreast its calling
An anticipated game of scrabble
Meekly by tradition
Schizophrenias control
To inability to
An anticipated game of scrabble
Drive synergy into
A hollow premise
Within the mind
An anticipated game of scrabble
That lies within its grip
A desire to escape
From conviction
An anticipated game of scrabble
Feeling highly competitive
Unperturbed message
To question reason
An anticipated game of scrabble
A hidden voice
A spoken word
A synergy of wisdom
An anticipated game of scrabble
Write?
Are you an avid reader? The more you read about poetry, the more you will know about written verse. A good poet will read all forms of poetry. A good poet will study the technique and style of other poets in order to learn from the best. A good poet will practice writing until he develops his own style of writing poetry. A good poet measures his ability by his craft.
The dead poetry society and the newer old school are historical, scholarly secretive groups developed in college that have studied and excelled the appreciation of writing and reading craft of many professional students today.
Writing does not come easy. There are writers that are turned down several times before he is published once. Emily Dickenson was not discovered until after she died. Some poets who write their first book have taken over one year before his work was published. The key to good writing is to build on it. The best craft for a writer is to write and rewrite until your craft is good enough to sell. Some people feel uncomfortable about writing and do not want it exposed until they are willing to share it.
You as a writer must develop your craft. If you do not like to write essays, or articles, try something you are good at and interested in. Do not give up. A poem may take more effort than the first try. You may have to study a subject more by using a source, or play with words by using a thesaurus. Do whatever it takes to develop message of your poem. A structured poem has unity within its stanzas. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. A message is within each group.
It is a good thing to revise a poem. It is a form of therapy to release tension. It is good to read your poems out loud for clarity. Read your poems in front of others and have others critique your work for clarity. After reading it, look for tone, form and patterns. Ask yourself if the message you wrote something you intended on saying. Make sure the rhyme and meter is good. Writing is like all forms of art, you must perfect your own style for others to enjoy it.
Poems can be about nature, life experiences, love, friends, death, person, places, things or the environment. It can be serious or humorous. It could be fun to write a poem. It could be pleasurable reading about poetry as well. You will not know unless you try it. Writing is a journal through the mind, thought process and creating imagery into a poem. The Harlem Renaissance allowed Langston Hughes to write about human condition faced in his era - the black experience. Hughes became one of the greatest writers of all time. There were many writing periods in America that launched poetry to the extremes of the love and celebration of poetry reading we have today in colleges, libraries and coffee houses.
There are many reasons people write. Some write for entertainment. Some write to advertise. Some write to inform. Some write to persuade. What ever the reason, writing is a good source of literature. Children’s literature old nursery rhymes is a form of poetry. The story, “The Cat in the House,” was one of the first children’s stories developed into a poem.
How do you write?
One most prominent reason people choose to write is to convey a message. Writing is a form of communication. Writing is a form of expression. The most popular way to write is in a journal. Journal writing is a form of free verse as such used in contemporary poetry. The contemporary poem uses ideas experaneously to express feeling about life. A hybrid poem an example of writing used with the combination of form and styles to relay a message in the poem.
Methods of writing?
Free Verse: When you write in journal you begin to write what you feel as you think. The next step would be to review what you wrote and revise your feelings into a comprehensive essay. A form of free verse is spoken word. A spoken word artist memorizes a poem and speaks it freely in front of the audience as if it is their own poem. A monolog is a form of poetry written in first verse. The speaker of the poem is talking about a lesson he learned in life. An epic from the Bible is about a spiritual lesson learned that has been translated down from generations.
You may practice improving your writing ability by using a tree diagram. If you plot your story, you have a method of developing cohesive thought process. Hip Hop poetry is a form of free verse performed in front of an audience. Hip Hop poetry is a poem, like most songs it rhymes and conveys a spiritual message to its audience. A gospel song is a form of spiritual rhyme. There is inside rhyme that rhymes within a line of poetry and there is end rhyme that rhymes at the end of a line. There is consonance that repeats consonant sounds and assonance that repeat vowel sounds. Rhyming is not the only form of poetry; for example, there is prose poetry that is in the form of a paragraph that tells a story.
As you begin to write a poem, you may use an outline. Once you begin to outline details to your story, your paper will flow. Poetry slam is a form of competitive poetry performed in front of an audience that is controversial and informative.
Verse: A dialog is used when telling a narrative story. In poetry this is called a ballad. A ballad could be written about family or friends. It could be to tell a story about a war or love affair. A satire suggests irony in a story. A sonnet is used to create dialog in written verse.
Forms of writing?
Article: Writing is a form of communication used as a source to educate or entertain. An article; for example is a form of communication used to educate. An article can be on best relationships or to inform you of the weather in Mississippi.
Narrative: A novel is a form of communication; for example that can be used to entertain. A novel is usually non-fiction or fiction. It could be true stories like the history of wars or it could be based on non-true stories that experience happen in life.
Dedication: Writing is a form of self expression where you convey ideas to an audience of readers. An obituary is a form of expression letting others know about the deceased life. A ode is a form of poetry that is a dedication to someone who died. An ethogy is a dedication to someone who lives.
What is emotional speech?
When writing about your feelings, you may use a figure of speech to relay the tone of the message. A tone could be a form of iambic contameter of stressed or unstressed syllables. It can be used in hycoo poems.
Rhyme: Words that rhyme at the end of the poem create tone too. It is called end rhyme. The words that almost rhyme are consonance, while words that vowels rhyme are called assonance. You do not have to rhyme every line of the poem. Rhyme may come in patterns. There are completes, tricots, quatrains, sextets ect all which are patterns of end rhyme. Folklore, songs and parables use a source of rhyme poetry.
Form: Each line of poetry is a form of expression. In a funny way, poems that have tone can create energy of the poem. A poem has lines that expression is unique. Poetry allows expression within clauses and phrases. Poems have stanzas too that are a group of unified words in one paragraph. A form of writing when the words are used in a picture is called a picture graph.
Tone: Another form of tone added to a poem is alliteration. Alliteration is when you use words with repetitive sound. A simile is used when comparing word images using the words like or an. A metaphor is a form of expression used to compare images in a symbolic way. A hyperbole is used to give added meaning to a poem that gives a thing feeling.
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POETRY
Player, Spoken Word
I thought I had a man. A BMW. Ooops; but he fooled me into believing he was a good man. You see, I was not good to myself. I was not true to myself when I trusted my body to be used for free, for good conversation, for lust. I had been living a lie. I dreamt of the fairy tale wedding, having kids, a house, a good car and good job if I met the perfect mate. I thought worldly on him but you see he played me with his mind control act, that I believed it. I was his slut. You see, the player was a class act. He had it going on. He was all that. When I thought I had him wrapped around me pinky, I turned out to be a freak under neath the sheets. Brother had it going on. He was fine to me. He had a bank roll that he loved to spend on me. His personality was smooth. His conversation was intellectual. He had class. If he asked me to jump, I would say how high. For this man I was willing to go the distance. Sex was so good, I aint lying, I thought he was the one. You see, each moment of ecstasy was a lie. I was fooled into believing sex would make him special. Sex would make him all mine. Sex was the foundation of our relationship. Sex would keep him coming back to me. I had to have it. It did not matter where I did it. We could have sex in the jeep, sex at the crib, sex on the counter, sex at work, sex at school. I had an addiction to giving this man what he wanted, wherever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He wanted it so much; sex was the mind game we played. He tricked me into believing he needed me. He needed my loving as a token of chastity. With that said, I found the truth about sex after each child. He left me bare foot and pregnant year after year. That all those years of commitment, I was played. That I was a warm hole to pee in. that I was the kick on the side with a concubine to raise alone, no but by his cousin or maybe he said to give our child to his girlfriend or wife to raise. He said I was about nothing. I felt like nothing. There are 3 sorts of women to a man, his loyal wife, his loyal friend and his loyal freak. I was the freak he came too when his wife was not there to submit to him. Men are control freaks and if you are foolish enough to believe it, you have been played. I thought I was good enough for him to come back to me. I was a bag of tricks. Now all I speak of are commitments and having just one true love. All the men I knew were like this. I did not ask to be a hutchie mamma playing tricks by a bunch of high rollers. I wanted to be the innocent virgin who was respected and treated like an African queen. All I am saying is do not make the same mistake sleeping from man to man, when you deserve better.
Death
An Autumn Day
The frolic leafs' of an autumn day
Dense forest Piercing time against the wind
Aloft - Silenced - Crushed
Murmuring whistle cries death:
Rust, Scarlet, Elburn masks of leafs'
Lifeless a dry, humid hole.
Color
If a color pertains to a hue
How depth of the hue pertains to light
While a mixture of hues define a contour
How much contour is needed to define beauty
If I were black, brown, yellow, white or purple
It would make solid black however you define it
The beauty in is if opal is in fashion
Black goes along with everything.
Reunited
The etching of a Caterpillar steps
Paint images of the patience it took teach grace
The autistic of spindling of a spiders web
Resends a creation of motivation of inspired concepts
The beauty of the sun settling beneath the sea
And of night parching the end of day
Enchants memories emulating peace
The gift to breath life, there is love
The agility to smile, there is love
The spirit of hope, there is love
18th Century
Take these worn shackles off my feet
You are wearing me down
With your controlling episodes of emotion
You do not own me
Let me be free to express myself
I felt you hold on to remit a fantasy of yours
When I don't feel the same way as kids do
I want to feel free from being tied down
I am tired of being reminded of you
When I don't exist, time does not persist
And I must move on, because there is a soul
Inside of me peeping out wanting to be free
But you won't let me escape from your spirit
You are not my soul mate, not the one I want
Not the one I dream of and still you wait for my return
Your ghost hunts me, stalks me follows my every mood
Now, I must go to the pasture to hide
For I can not love anyone now that you have broken my heart
Reflection
I vaguely trace your appearance
A distorted figurine from the past
Blotches of ink splotches across the canvass
Splotches of oil dances life to an unknown postulant
Imagery emerges a distant path of discovery
Fading fast
Don’t Ask, Poetry Slam
A haze and a junkie
Jiving high
Living on the street
Inhaling a lie addiction
Saving for a raining day
To get my stuff together
A reefer over college
A choice jiving high
A cigarette stick and a pregnancy
Hustling pool on welfare
Meet you at one
Meet you at three
One day immoral embarrassment
A smile be your umbrella
Don't ask
The games we choose to play
Eyes of a Child
White orchards hallowing
In the wind
Bopping heads bounce
In laughter
Prayers of serenity dance
In harmonic prayer
Rage, Poetry Slam
State of mind
Contrary to what is said
A delusional hatred
To be mistaken for love
Voices. Voices that welcome madness
Immoral words that imitate denial and bigotry
Words used to break you down
Rob you; make you a criminal of self thought
Was that what I thought you said?
A blind man realize on touch
A sane man on logic
Delusional voices that make me mad
That make me sad, that make me want to fight back
To defend my youth, defend my cultural heritage
Where prejudice has no warrant
Spoken words, only justifies reasons to be misunderstood
I will not be judged or profiled or prejudged by fault only credibility
For I too am America
Four Colored Girls, Poem Script
I cry many tears of endearment
Many sleepless nights
I speak loudly in anger
Bitter harsh feelings of denial
Confusion asking for respect
When emotions lost its meaning
I cry many tears of rejection
Their words speak louder than words
I whisper, I whisper, I whisper words of wisdom
A freedom of expression
Pondering in fear
I cry many years for forgiveness
I have wrongfully sinned
I pray for the strength to protect my soul
For my fate to determine my keeper
Woman’s Voice: Happiness… is joy. Being able to share laughter at your faults that are both embarrassing and demeaning. It means to come to realization that God made humans that a couple has the ability to mess up. It means to confront with each others insecurities to admit to your faults when you are wrong and praise glory when you are right. Happiness means to accept each others feelings to trust them. Happiness means to let your fate grow as whole.
Man‘s Conscious: I wanted to confront you. It had been something I held within for some time. I ask why I feel alone when we are a couple. I want you to understand I miss the ways things went. Now, I feel hurt in my heart. You come along with a different personality. My brother died and I feel things are different. We do not hang out the way we use to. We do not talk like we used to and sex is not the same. I feel why we can’t talk this out. If you lost all reason for what we have I must leave.
Woman’s Voice: Sadness… is silence. To allow your feelings to express anger. It is to feel anger is not in control. Where dramatic outburst come from the heart asking to be forgiven. It is the ability to cry out outburst for forgiveness to acknowledge your feelings are heard. To cry is to say words you wanted to say and to feel the things you could not feel alone.
Man’s Conscious: Your ability to not love is my inability to trust you. How can I allow us to grow when we distance ourselves? I feel you do not want me to trust you after your brother died, because, you shut me out when I am trying to cope with him not being around. There is a line between us, between fate and faith. If we are both willing to make this choice, we must both be willing to walk the distance together. The words we choose not to say, is what we fail in this relationship.
Woman’s Voice: If you are the man I thought you were, the man I fell in love with, I need you let me to love you.
Man’s Voice: I want to be a man. I am a man. As I reach this right of passage, I need you to be there cheering me on as my partner in life.
Silence…as the couple held each other and stared in each other eyes in silence.
My Favorite Poem
The world is a quilt and each patch is a nation
Bound by a thread since the days of creation
Adorned with great color and radiant splendor
Though divided by race and religion and gender
In some eyes, it is handsome, in others contorted
The patches are different, unmatched and unsorted
Incongruous in pattern, in shape and in color
Not one is much similar to any other
So some try to imagine one great design
But in truth our uniqueness is really just fine
Nations and patches of all kinds and all sorts
Customs, religions, languages, sports
This is okay if each patch has its space
And on the quilt of the world, each nation has its place
But the stitches that bind us are easily shed
By the wars that are fought and the words that are said
We must realize the appearance of no patch is inferior
And the ways of no nation can make it superior
Divided by oceans, united by a dream
The world is a quilt and our love is its seam
Stood Up, Structured Poem
The Beginning
A sigh of reprisal was an ambivalent cry
My aching heart dispels anger of being told no
Over and over again - the denial
The Middle
Longing for your acknowledgement
To be accepted into your realm of social life
I wait for your arrival to return my soul you took
The End
With every word lost in speech
I yearn to express the pain my heart feels
To not be loved by you
The Cult
Locked up
Ungrateful minds
Neglected by their peers
Just a matter of time
Papa don’t claim him
Mamma can’t save him
Bargain with his own life
Just a matter of time
Ill doctrine lessons off the street
Idle minds dwindles about their peeps
Money laundering swindles of what to keep
Just a matter of time
Hustling cash on the dime
Got to get paid, got to get mine
Took another life an innocent child
Just a matter of time
Battling life’s struggle
Gang bangers style
Hope I live to see 21
Just a matter of time
The Negra Saga of a Ghetto Queen
Harassment and denial
From opposing religions
To either flunk her out
Or to face rational decisions
Drive bys, car bombs, and parents threats
The unreachable child
Had many regrets
Angry crowds knock out car windows
Vengeful gangs kicked in doors
All against one student from reaching
Her educational goals
God would not judge her
But grant her creed
Stereotypes, Spoken Word
Stereotypes, is that a gesture? Are you entitled to pass judgment based?
On preconceived thoughts? Is the circulation of thoughts based on?
Rumors? Do you judge because you do not care to understand my
position? Is it because you never got to know me and do not care? Can
you really tell by first impression that I am different? Is it my outward
appearance, you base judgment that I fit those stereo types? Can you
tell by looking at me, what you do not like about me? Is it my outward
Appearance you hesitate to retaliate towards? Must we bargain with a
Liturgy? Is it something I said that you’re against? Is it over something?
Someone said about me that has got you all fired up? Did I not follow?
Through based on your ideology of reasoning that frustrated you? Is it
Right to judge, because of how I acted out that you must try to change
To your preferences? Shall I admit something is wrong with me? How
Does one respond to stereotypes? I am who I am.
To Love Oneself, Spoken Word
To love is to embody emotion to penetrate deep down in your soul. It is
The emotion to love oneself; because one must love oneself in order to
Allow others to love you. Love is feeling of greatness that you place
God above oneself; because God it the gatekeeper of your soul. Are you
Feeling me? Loving one means you are blessed that you feel good
About you and you are doing right by God. Loving one means
That you have an attitude of pride. You represent that feeling of
Revelation that you have reached redemption of the mind, body and
Soul. The way you carry yourself is how others will judge you. Love God,
Love life and love one self.
Forsaken, Avant Grade Poem
I
We have been taken as an enemy of all
In prison our ability to communicate with God
We have mistaken our old tired lies
Creating fear within our delicate skin
II
Drugged addicts holding us back
Alienating a rafters dark steps
The ghettos furious life sentence
Devious of the calm waters
III
We entrap our minds in dissolute times
An image of a storm perturbs warm waters
A roots bough underneath the soils foil
A shadows emerges a hallow path
IV
To taste its breath of poisoness air
Hovering silence embrace for peace
Time’s client is an admissive stare
Ghostly hands deplete death entrapment
V
Ghastly sign of escape of insanity
Trying to vacate his unsought welcome
The river trails defeat and defile voices behind
His huge plow hands hold in singes of dirt
VI
His back hold gashes of violet sups of blood
His heart meditates for a savior
The dark night encloses desire to be free
Lord, grant me strength
VII
Perilous dreams deferred
Envious puppets emulate denial
If tears could speak
It speaks of fear
VII
Align the dark shores
To compromise life in deception
Hammering light conspiracy
To position for failure
VIII
A quilt made of old tired jeans
A sewn patch from each generation
A coveted patch woven in gayety
A smoldering vintage kept hot
VIIII
And in the middle of the day
We would all exit
The storm
Amongst a clay of dust
X
And mother will bequeath love
And nature will provide fruit
And prayer will be inevitable truth
And the new born will never speak in silence
Red Nature, Pictograph
Red tepid water
Drains through building
Blocks of slothful thought.
Thrust winds, rain, sleet build
Red energy from lightning in
The sky moldering in deception.
A scented red rose with
Long thickly sharp prongs
Speak of gayety pride.
A red liquid imprint from
An old newspaper personal
Dreary same sex ad.
A tornado battled winds blew
Down the red old country barn
In depravity of old tired accusations.
Awakening death dreary dark dark dark
Black clouds with tiers of
Red voices speak of
Despair, agony and fear.
Red sun rays piercing
Confused signs of life of
A lustful inquiry.
Chilly air rips through
The wear and tear
Of a red old
Withered
Jacket
Beaten
And
Denied.
To Dream to be an American
I am an African American
And a composite of many dreams
I am a patriot of God's faith
And an antedate of a black reverie
I am an American
Born and reared
From different attributes of people
Who have each bled or shed a tear
From the battlefields
To the highest court
From the past until now
Have stood like true patriots
With hope a new hope for all humanity to be found
I am a true American
Though how difficult it must seem
But I am one true African American
Who dares to dream?
Reflection – Hip Hop Poetry
Yea//Yea//Yea//I am on a mission//it is my pleasure to defeat you//treat you//beat you//with the busta rhymes//so high to greet you//with a voice so high//the streets look ya rhymes do not match the heat that I swear// a voice that adds strength//a popular request I lead this joint higher and higher//right out their seats//bobbin their heads to the hypnotic beats//drill en holes in the concrete//rhymes so real it has sex appeal//it is my intention//a mission//to add flavor to the swizzle that has base and time//it is my pleasure to create words on paper so innovative//let me bust this rhyme//ah ha, ah ha, ah ha//I am on a mission//moving and grooving and moving//like it is supposed to be//adding amazing grace to spirituality//yea, yea, yea//I am on a mission//with rhymes so depth I am making history//a voice in the crowd they want to hear//they like my temperament//they hear my style//having you all jealous and proud//if only you could race a mile//you are in defeat my brother//ill in it feeling it//cranking the upward beats//it is just a matter of time//I defeat you with my depth rhyme//tic tock tic tock//it is about time//A super Women//a black deli ma//Broken hearted female//Lost in addiction//A corner whore//To support an infliction//A single mom//Trying to make ends meet//On welfare selling her body//Just to afford nicer things//Cause child support is never enough//To raise a family//Father is in prison
I Dream Like That, Neo Poem
I be like that. I
Think like that. I
See like that. I
Hope like that. I
Dream. I
Speak like that. I
Pray like that. I
Believe like that. I
act like that. I
Dream. I
Do like that. I
Be like that. I
Am like that. I’m
Free like that. I’m
Free like that. I’m
Free like that. I
Dream…
Vegas Bikes, Poem
Imagine how we sported our bikes down Lance Street
With polished spokes as wheels spinned
As the chrome stood out balanced in the wind
Imagine the decor of red and white ribbons pom pomes
That decorated the handle bars
The plastic horn that beeped pedestrian warnings
That you have arrived
Imagine the sounds of a hand made engine wheels
Sung from the tongue of a card
Pinned from a clothes pin to the spoke
Humming, humming, humming
Imagine your wheel rider was bold red
Proclaiming your mark to the streets
That everyone fan acknowledged
As you performed tricks
One wheel and no hands
Gaping over the side walk to the street
In and out speeding through traffic
As you proclaimed your glory
In your hand made car, your bike
It and I a young road scavenger
Vegas, Prose
Let me introduce you to my small world. I grew up in the seventies, in a poor neighborhood, in the ghetto where poverty prevailed. It is where dreams meant to either be teachers, made or trash men or to be imprisoned or homeless one generation after the next. I attended a parochial school in North Las Vegas. My parents worked two jobs to make ends meet. I adapted to gang violence in the streets. Where shooting and drive bys were common. Gangs would hang out at the schools drinking 8 balls, throwing broken bottles as I passed by. Young gang members would respect older ones while they hosted neighborhood meetings. The cutest gang member would be the straight A students who would go on to professional athletes who dealt drugs. It is where clubs would be shot up after each week. Some neighbors mentality meant to do roguish things like trashing street signs and writing gang graffiti on walls to mark their territory. Teens hung out in groups to watch the streets smoking weed until driven off by police officers. It is where there was a Conner liquor store and church could be found on every corner. Where gangs were not invited in the church and the store owner knew its neighborhood kids that shopped there often and would not dare rob the store. Throughout the year, boys played on the basketball court training future stars as girls watched the boys play hoping to catch one. There were street drill teams thinking of rebuttal routines for competitions. Prostitution was elevated until they got pregnant to trap a man to marry them. Girls knew who as kids who they would marry, how many children they would have, what kind of car they would drive, what type of house they would live in and knew imagined impoverished career they would work. Block parties would go on every summer where anyone could go to their block neighborhood parties or hang out at the park block parties. Kids would have water balloon fights at the end of the school year. Neighbors would sit out playing loud music, while playing dominoes and young girls braided hair while talking girl talk. It was a time where everyone would support one another prone to peace when we were all one family.
Player, Spoken Word
I thought I had a man. A BMW. Ooops;. but he fooled me into believing he was a good man. You see, I was not good to myself. I was not true to myself when I trusted my body to be used for free, for good conversation, for lust. I had been living a lie. I dreamt of the fairy tale wedding, having kids, a house, a good car and good job if I met the perfect mate. I thought worldly on him but you see he played me with his mind control act, that I was believing it. I was his slut. You see, the player was a class act. He had it going on. He was all that. When I thought I had him wrapped around me pinky, I turned out to be a freak under neath the sheets. Brother had it going on. He was fine to me. He had a bank roll that he loved to spend on me. He personality was smooth. His conversation was intellectual. He had class. If he asked me to jump, I would say how high. For this man I was willing to go the distance. Sex was so good, I aint lying, I thought he was the one. You see, each moment of ecstasy was a lie. I was fooled into believing sex would make him special. Sex would make him all mine. Sex was the foundation of our relationship. Sex would keep him coming back to me. I had to have it. It did not matter where I did it. We could have sex in the jeep, sex at the crib, sex on the counter, sex at work, sex at school. I had an addiction to giving this man what he wanted, wherever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He wanted it so much, sex was the mind game we played. He tricked me into believing he needed me. He needed my loving as a token of chastity. With that said, I found the truth about sex after each child. He left me bare foot and pregnant year after year. That all those years of commitment, I was played. That I was a warm hole to pee in. that I was the kick on the side with a concubine to raise alone, no but by his cousin or maybe he said to give our child to his girlfriend or wife to raise. He said I was about nothing. I felt like nothing. There are 3 sorts of women to a man, his loyal wife, his loyal friend and his loyal freak. I was the freak he came too when his wife was not there to submit to him. Men are control freaks and if you are foolish enough to believe it, you have been played. I thought I was good enough for him to come back to me. I was a bag of tricks. Now all I speak of are commitments and having just one true love. All the men I knew were like this. I did not ask to be a hutchie mamma playing tricks by a bunch of high rollers. I wanted to be the innocent virgin who was respected and treated like an African queen. All I am saying is do not make the same mistake sleeping from man to man, when you deserve better.
To my Unborn, Spoken Word
…sorry I disrespected you. All the times I lived longing for your daddy to step up to the plate, longing for your daddy to step up to the plate, longing for your daddy to step up to the plate to claim you. For he did not know of his Godly creation. His own salvation. Instead I saved you from the agony and distress before you were born into poverty, abandonment and denial. I protected you from neglect. It is what I thought I wanted. It is about me. It is what no one understands. And when I inhaled life, I felt the taste of your breath when I aborted you. I feel the selfish pain of guilt that I betrayed you. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. I could not support you. I thought I wanted us to grow together through fate to face rejection from ignorance and betrayal. I wanted my baby daddy to be a daddy. I wanted your daddy to be a daddy. I wanted your daddy to be a daddy. And so I kept you a secret. Sorry my decision was final with out much thought not knowing the inevitable of one day seeing you achieve. I chose this path, to not be born without reason but with just cause. And if I see purpose through reasoning, wanting to tell your daddy the secret that lies within me, our souls will be redeemed. Many tears, many tears, many tears; I cry.
The Will to Write
Starvation; driven
A lost for words
A hornets nest yearning desire
An anticipated game of scrabble
Memories of twisted fate
Caressing the mind with images
Of eulogy
An anticipated game of scrabble
Depravity controls
Convections conceived in thought
Filtered letters dance
An anticipated game of scrabble
Serenading word clusters
from a rehearsed psalm
Colorful ink imprints fade
An anticipated game of scrabble
Its fallen premise
Yearning desire
Abreast its calling
An anticipated game of scrabble
Meekly by tradition
Schizophrenias control
To inability to
An anticipated game of scrabble
Drive synergy into
A hollow premise
Within the mind
An anticipated game of scrabble
That lies within its grip
A desire to escape
From conviction
An anticipated game of scrabble
Feeling highly competitive
Unperturbed message
To question reason
An anticipated game of scrabble
A hidden voice
A spoken word
A synergy of wisdom
An anticipated game of scrabble
Write?
Are you an avid reader? The more you read about poetry, the more you will know about written verse. A good poet will read all forms of poetry. A good poet will study the technique and style of other poets in order to learn from the best. A good poet will practice writing until he develops his own style of writing poetry. A good poet measures his ability by his craft.
The dead poetry society and the newer old school are historical, scholarly secretive groups developed in college that have studied and excelled the appreciation of writing and reading craft of many professional students today.
Writing does not come easy. There are writers that are turned down several times before he is published once. Emily Dickenson was not discovered until after she died. Some poets who write their first book have taken over one year before his work was published. The key to good writing is to build on it. The best craft for a writer is to write and rewrite until your craft is good enough to sell. Some people feel uncomfortable about writing and do not want it exposed until they are willing to share it.
You as a writer must develop your craft. If you do not like to write essays, or articles, try something you are good at and interested in. Do not give up. A poem may take more effort than the first try. You may have to study a subject more by using a source, or play with words by using a thesaurus. Do whatever it takes to develop message of your poem. A structured poem has unity within its stanzas. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. A message is within each group.
It is a good thing to revise a poem. It is a form of therapy to release tension. It is good to read your poems out loud for clarity. Read your poems in front of others and have others critique your work for clarity. After reading it, look for tone, form and patterns. Ask yourself if the message you wrote something you intended on saying. Make sure the rhyme and meter is good. Writing is like all forms of art, you must perfect your own style for others to enjoy it.
Poems can be about nature, life experiences, love, friends, death, person, places, things or the environment. It can be serious or humorous. It could be fun to write a poem. It could be pleasurable reading about poetry as well. You will not know unless you try it. Writing is a journal through the mind, thought process and creating imagery into a poem. The Harlem Renaissance allowed Langston Hughes to write about human condition faced in his era - the black experience. Hughes became one of the greatest writers of all time. There were many writing periods in America that launched poetry to the extremes of the love and celebration of poetry reading we have today in colleges, libraries and coffee houses.
There are many reasons people write. Some write for entertainment. Some write to advertise. Some write to inform. Some write to persuade. What ever the reason, writing is a good source of literature. Children’s literature old nursery rhymes is a form of poetry. The story, “The Cat in the House,” was one of the first children’s stories developed into a poem.
How do you write?
One most prominent reason people choose to write is to convey a message. Writing is a form of communication. Writing is a form of expression. The most popular way to write is in a journal. Journal writing is a form of free verse as such used in contemporary poetry. The contemporary poem uses ideas experaneously to express feeling about life. A hybrid poem an example of writing used with the combination of form and styles to relay a message in the poem.
Methods of writing?
Free Verse: When you write in journal you begin to write what you feel as you think. The next step would be to review what you wrote and revise your feelings into a comprehensive essay. A form of free verse is spoken word. A spoken word artist memorizes a poem and speaks it freely in front of the audience as if it is their own poem. A monolog is a form of poetry written in first verse. The speaker of the poem is talking about a lesson he learned in life. An epic from the Bible is about a spiritual lesson learned that has been translated down from generations.
You may practice improving your writing ability by using a tree diagram. If you plot your story, you have a method of developing cohesive thought process. Hip Hop poetry is a form of free verse performed in front of an audience. Hip Hop poetry is a poem, like most songs it rhymes and conveys a spiritual message to its audience. A gospel song is a form of spiritual rhyme. There is inside rhyme that rhymes within a line of poetry and there is end rhyme that rhymes at the end of a line. There is consonance that repeats consonant sounds and assonance that repeat vowel sounds. Rhyming is not the only form of poetry; for example, there is prose poetry that is in the form of a paragraph that tells a story.
As you begin to write a poem, you may use an outline. Once you begin to outline details to your story, your paper will flow. Poetry slam is a form of competitive poetry performed in front of an audience that is controversial and informative.
Verse: A dialog is used when telling a narrative story. In poetry this is called a ballad. A ballad could be written about family or friends. It could be to tell a story about a war or love affair. A satire suggests irony in a story. A sonnet is used to create dialog in written verse.
Forms of writing?
Article: Writing is a form of communication used as a source to educate or entertain. An article; for example is a form of communication used to educate. An article can be on best relationships or to inform you of the weather in Mississippi.
Narrative: A novel is a form of communication; for example that can be used to entertain. A novel is usually non-fiction or fiction. It could be true stories like the history of wars or it could be based on non-true stories that experience happen in life.
Dedication: Writing is a form of self expression where you convey ideas to an audience of readers. An obituary is a form of expression letting others know about the deceased life. A ode is a form of poetry that is a dedication to someone who died. An ethogy is a dedication to someone who lives.
What is emotional speech?
When writing about your feelings, you may use a figure of speech to relay the tone of the message. A tone could be a form of iambic contameter of stressed or unstressed syllables. It can be used in hycoo poems.
Rhyme: Words that rhyme at the end of the poem create tone too. It is called end rhyme. The words that almost rhyme are consonance, while words that vowels rhyme are called assonance. You do not have to rhyme every line of the poem. Rhyme may come in patterns. There are completes, tricots, quatrains, sextets ect all which are patterns of end rhyme. Folklore, songs and parables use a source of rhyme poetry.
Form: Each line of poetry is a form of expression. In a funny way, poems that have tone can create energy of the poem. A poem has lines that expression is unique. Poetry allows expression within clauses and phrases. Poems have stanzas too that are a group of unified words in one paragraph. A form of writing when the words are used in a picture is called a picture graph.
Tone: Another form of tone added to a poem is alliteration. Alliteration is when you use words with repetitive sound. A simile is used when comparing word images using the words like or an. A metaphor is a form of expression used to compare images in a symbolic way. A hyperbole is used to give added meaning to a poem that gives a thing feeling.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
POETRY
Player, Spoken Word
I thought I had a man. A BMW. Ooops; but he fooled me into believing he was a good man. You see, I was not good to myself. I was not true to myself when I trusted my body to be used for free, for good conversation, for lust. I had been living a lie. I dreamt of the fairy tale wedding, having kids, a house, a good car and good job if I met the perfect mate. I thought worldly on him but you see he played me with his mind control act, that I believed it. I was his slut. You see, the player was a class act. He had it going on. He was all that. When I thought I had him wrapped around me pinky, I turned out to be a freak under neath the sheets. Brother had it going on. He was fine to me. He had a bank roll that he loved to spend on me. His personality was smooth. His conversation was intellectual. He had class. If he asked me to jump, I would say how high. For this man I was willing to go the distance. Sex was so good, I aint lying, I thought he was the one. You see, each moment of ecstasy was a lie. I was fooled into believing sex would make him special. Sex would make him all mine. Sex was the foundation of our relationship. Sex would keep him coming back to me. I had to have it. It did not matter where I did it. We could have sex in the jeep, sex at the crib, sex on the counter, sex at work, sex at school. I had an addiction to giving this man what he wanted, wherever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He wanted it so much; sex was the mind game we played. He tricked me into believing he needed me. He needed my loving as a token of chastity. With that said, I found the truth about sex after each child. He left me bare foot and pregnant year after year. That all those years of commitment, I was played. That I was a warm hole to pee in. that I was the kick on the side with a concubine to raise alone, no but by his cousin or maybe he said to give our child to his girlfriend or wife to raise. He said I was about nothing. I felt like nothing. There are 3 sorts of women to a man, his loyal wife, his loyal friend and his loyal freak. I was the freak he came too when his wife was not there to submit to him. Men are control freaks and if you are foolish enough to believe it, you have been played. I thought I was good enough for him to come back to me. I was a bag of tricks. Now all I speak of are commitments and having just one true love. All the men I knew were like this. I did not ask to be a hutchie mamma playing tricks by a bunch of high rollers. I wanted to be the innocent virgin who was respected and treated like an African queen. All I am saying is do not make the same mistake sleeping from man to man, when you deserve better.
Death
An Autumn Day
The frolic leafs' of an autumn day
Dense forest Piercing time against the wind
Aloft - Silenced - Crushed
Murmuring whistle cries death:
Rust, Scarlet, Elburn masks of leafs'
Lifeless a dry, humid hole.
Color
If a color pertains to a hue
How depth of the hue pertains to light
While a mixture of hues define a contour
How much contour is needed to define beauty
If I were black, brown, yellow, white or purple
It would make solid black however you define it
The beauty in is if opal is in fashion
Black goes along with everything.
Reunited
The etching of a Caterpillar steps
Paint images of the patience it took teach grace
The autistic of spindling of a spiders web
Resends a creation of motivation of inspired concepts
The beauty of the sun settling beneath the sea
And of night parching the end of day
Enchants memories emulating peace
The gift to breath life, there is love
The agility to smile, there is love
The spirit of hope, there is love
18th Century
Take these worn shackles off my feet
You are wearing me down
With your controlling episodes of emotion
You do not own me
Let me be free to express myself
I felt you hold on to remit a fantasy of yours
When I don't feel the same way as kids do
I want to feel free from being tied down
I am tired of being reminded of you
When I don't exist, time does not persist
And I must move on, because there is a soul
Inside of me peeping out wanting to be free
But you won't let me escape from your spirit
You are not my soul mate, not the one I want
Not the one I dream of and still you wait for my return
Your ghost hunts me, stalks me follows my every mood
Now, I must go to the pasture to hide
For I can not love anyone now that you have broken my heart
Reflection
I vaguely trace your appearance
A distorted figurine from the past
Blotches of ink splotches across the canvass
Splotches of oil dances life to an unknown postulant
Imagery emerges a distant path of discovery
Fading fast
Don’t Ask, Poetry Slam
A haze and a junkie
Jiving high
Living on the street
Inhaling a lie addiction
Saving for a raining day
To get my stuff together
A reefer over college
A choice jiving high
A cigarette stick and a pregnancy
Hustling pool on welfare
Meet you at one
Meet you at three
One day immoral embarrassment
A smile be your umbrella
Don't ask
The games we choose to play
Eyes of a Child
White orchards hallowing
In the wind
Bopping heads bounce
In laughter
Prayers of serenity dance
In harmonic prayer
Rage, Poetry Slam
State of mind
Contrary to what is said
A delusional hatred
To be mistaken for love
Voices. Voices that welcome madness
Immoral words that imitate denial and bigotry
Words used to break you down
Rob you; make you a criminal of self thought
Was that what I thought you said?
A blind man realize on touch
A sane man on logic
Delusional voices that make me mad
That make me sad, that make me want to fight back
To defend my youth, defend my cultural heritage
Where prejudice has no warrant
Spoken words, only justifies reasons to be misunderstood
I will not be judged or profiled or prejudged by fault only credibility
For I too am America
Four Colored Girls, Poem Script
I cry many tears of endearment
Many sleepless nights
I speak loudly in anger
Bitter harsh feelings of denial
Confusion asking for respect
When emotions lost its meaning
I cry many tears of rejection
Their words speak louder than words
I whisper, I whisper, I whisper words of wisdom
A freedom of expression
Pondering in fear
I cry many years for forgiveness
I have wrongfully sinned
I pray for the strength to protect my soul
For my fate to determine my keeper
Woman’s Voice: Happiness… is joy. Being able to share laughter at your faults that are both embarrassing and demeaning. It means to come to realization that God made humans that a couple has the ability to mess up. It means to confront with each others insecurities to admit to your faults when you are wrong and praise glory when you are right. Happiness means to accept each others feelings to trust them. Happiness means to let your fate grow as whole.
Man‘s Conscious: I wanted to confront you. It had been something I held within for some time. I ask why I feel alone when we are a couple. I want you to understand I miss the ways things went. Now, I feel hurt in my heart. You come along with a different personality. My brother died and I feel things are different. We do not hang out the way we use to. We do not talk like we used to and sex is not the same. I feel why we can’t talk this out. If you lost all reason for what we have I must leave.
Woman’s Voice: Sadness… is silence. To allow your feelings to express anger. It is to feel anger is not in control. Where dramatic outburst come from the heart asking to be forgiven. It is the ability to cry out outburst for forgiveness to acknowledge your feelings are heard. To cry is to say words you wanted to say and to feel the things you could not feel alone.
Man’s Conscious: Your ability to not love is my inability to trust you. How can I allow us to grow when we distance ourselves? I feel you do not want me to trust you after your brother died, because, you shut me out when I am trying to cope with him not being around. There is a line between us, between fate and faith. If we are both willing to make this choice, we must both be willing to walk the distance together. The words we choose not to say, is what we fail in this relationship.
Woman’s Voice: If you are the man I thought you were, the man I fell in love with, I need you let me to love you.
Man’s Voice: I want to be a man. I am a man. As I reach this right of passage, I need you to be there cheering me on as my partner in life.
Silence…as the couple held each other and stared in each other eyes in silence.
My Favorite Poem
The world is a quilt and each patch is a nation
Bound by a thread since the days of creation
Adorned with great color and radiant splendor
Though divided by race and religion and gender
In some eyes, it is handsome, in others contorted
The patches are different, unmatched and unsorted
Incongruous in pattern, in shape and in color
Not one is much similar to any other
So some try to imagine one great design
But in truth our uniqueness is really just fine
Nations and patches of all kinds and all sorts
Customs, religions, languages, sports
This is okay if each patch has its space
And on the quilt of the world, each nation has its place
But the stitches that bind us are easily shed
By the wars that are fought and the words that are said
We must realize the appearance of no patch is inferior
And the ways of no nation can make it superior
Divided by oceans, united by a dream
The world is a quilt and our love is its seam
Stood Up, Structured Poem
The Beginning
A sigh of reprisal was an ambivalent cry
My aching heart dispels anger of being told no
Over and over again - the denial
The Middle
Longing for your acknowledgement
To be accepted into your realm of social life
I wait for your arrival to return my soul you took
The End
With every word lost in speech
I yearn to express the pain my heart feels
To not be loved by you
The Cult
Locked up
Ungrateful minds
Neglected by their peers
Just a matter of time
Papa don’t claim him
Mamma can’t save him
Bargain with his own life
Just a matter of time
Ill doctrine lessons off the street
Idle minds dwindles about their peeps
Money laundering swindles of what to keep
Just a matter of time
Hustling cash on the dime
Got to get paid, got to get mine
Took another life an innocent child
Just a matter of time
Battling life’s struggle
Gang bangers style
Hope I live to see 21
Just a matter of time
The Negra Saga of a Ghetto Queen
Harassment and denial
From opposing religions
To either flunk her out
Or to face rational decisions
Drive bys, car bombs, and parents threats
The unreachable child
Had many regrets
Angry crowds knock out car windows
Vengeful gangs kicked in doors
All against one student from reaching
Her educational goals
God would not judge her
But grant her creed
Stereotypes, Spoken Word
Stereotypes, is that a gesture? Are you entitled to pass judgment based?
On preconceived thoughts? Is the circulation of thoughts based on?
Rumors? Do you judge because you do not care to understand my
position? Is it because you never got to know me and do not care? Can
you really tell by first impression that I am different? Is it my outward
appearance, you base judgment that I fit those stereo types? Can you
tell by looking at me, what you do not like about me? Is it my outward
Appearance you hesitate to retaliate towards? Must we bargain with a
Liturgy? Is it something I said that you’re against? Is it over something?
Someone said about me that has got you all fired up? Did I not follow?
Through based on your ideology of reasoning that frustrated you? Is it
Right to judge, because of how I acted out that you must try to change
To your preferences? Shall I admit something is wrong with me? How
Does one respond to stereotypes? I am who I am.
To Love Oneself, Spoken Word
To love is to embody emotion to penetrate deep down in your soul. It is
The emotion to love oneself; because one must love oneself in order to
Allow others to love you. Love is feeling of greatness that you place
God above oneself; because God it the gatekeeper of your soul. Are you
Feeling me? Loving one means you are blessed that you feel good
About you and you are doing right by God. Loving one means
That you have an attitude of pride. You represent that feeling of
Revelation that you have reached redemption of the mind, body and
Soul. The way you carry yourself is how others will judge you. Love God,
Love life and love one self.
Forsaken, Avant Grade Poem
I
We have been taken as an enemy of all
In prison our ability to communicate with God
We have mistaken our old tired lies
Creating fear within our delicate skin
II
Drugged addicts holding us back
Alienating a rafters dark steps
The ghettos furious life sentence
Devious of the calm waters
III
We entrap our minds in dissolute times
An image of a storm perturbs warm waters
A roots bough underneath the soils foil
A shadows emerges a hallow path
IV
To taste its breath of poisoness air
Hovering silence embrace for peace
Time’s client is an admissive stare
Ghostly hands deplete death entrapment
V
Ghastly sign of escape of insanity
Trying to vacate his unsought welcome
The river trails defeat and defile voices behind
His huge plow hands hold in singes of dirt
VI
His back hold gashes of violet sups of blood
His heart meditates for a savior
The dark night encloses desire to be free
Lord, grant me strength
VII
Perilous dreams deferred
Envious puppets emulate denial
If tears could speak
It speaks of fear
VII
Align the dark shores
To compromise life in deception
Hammering light conspiracy
To position for failure
VIII
A quilt made of old tired jeans
A sewn patch from each generation
A coveted patch woven in gayety
A smoldering vintage kept hot
VIIII
And in the middle of the day
We would all exit
The storm
Amongst a clay of dust
X
And mother will bequeath love
And nature will provide fruit
And prayer will be inevitable truth
And the new born will never speak in silence
Red Nature, Pictograph
Red tepid water
Drains through building
Blocks of slothful thought.
Thrust winds, rain, sleet build
Red energy from lightning in
The sky moldering in deception.
A scented red rose with
Long thickly sharp prongs
Speak of gayety pride.
A red liquid imprint from
An old newspaper personal
Dreary same sex ad.
A tornado battled winds blew
Down the red old country barn
In depravity of old tired accusations.
Awakening death dreary dark dark dark
Black clouds with tiers of
Red voices speak of
Despair, agony and fear.
Red sun rays piercing
Confused signs of life of
A lustful inquiry.
Chilly air rips through
The wear and tear
Of a red old
Withered
Jacket
Beaten
And
Denied.
To Dream to be an American
I am an African American
And a composite of many dreams
I am a patriot of God's faith
And an antedate of a black reverie
I am an American
Born and reared
From different attributes of people
Who have each bled or shed a tear
From the battlefields
To the highest court
From the past until now
Have stood like true patriots
With hope a new hope for all humanity to be found
I am a true American
Though how difficult it must seem
But I am one true African American
Who dares to dream?
Reflection – Hip Hop Poetry
Yea//Yea//Yea//I am on a mission//it is my pleasure to defeat you//treat you//beat you//with the busta rhymes//so high to greet you//with a voice so high//the streets look ya rhymes do not match the heat that I swear// a voice that adds strength//a popular request I lead this joint higher and higher//right out their seats//bobbin their heads to the hypnotic beats//drill en holes in the concrete//rhymes so real it has sex appeal//it is my intention//a mission//to add flavor to the swizzle that has base and time//it is my pleasure to create words on paper so innovative//let me bust this rhyme//ah ha, ah ha, ah ha//I am on a mission//moving and grooving and moving//like it is supposed to be//adding amazing grace to spirituality//yea, yea, yea//I am on a mission//with rhymes so depth I am making history//a voice in the crowd they want to hear//they like my temperament//they hear my style//having you all jealous and proud//if only you could race a mile//you are in defeat my brother//ill in it feeling it//cranking the upward beats//it is just a matter of time//I defeat you with my depth rhyme//tic tock tic tock//it is about time//A super Women//a black deli ma//Broken hearted female//Lost in addiction//A corner whore//To support an infliction//A single mom//Trying to make ends meet//On welfare selling her body//Just to afford nicer things//Cause child support is never enough//To raise a family//Father is in prison
I Dream Like That, Neo Poem
I be like that. I
Think like that. I
See like that. I
Hope like that. I
Dream. I
Speak like that. I
Pray like that. I
Believe like that. I
act like that. I
Dream. I
Do like that. I
Be like that. I
Am like that. I’m
Free like that. I’m
Free like that. I’m
Free like that. I
Dream…
Vegas Bikes, Poem
Imagine how we sported our bikes down Lance Street
With polished spokes as wheels spinned
As the chrome stood out balanced in the wind
Imagine the decor of red and white ribbons pom pomes
That decorated the handle bars
The plastic horn that beeped pedestrian warnings
That you have arrived
Imagine the sounds of a hand made engine wheels
Sung from the tongue of a card
Pinned from a clothes pin to the spoke
Humming, humming, humming
Imagine your wheel rider was bold red
Proclaiming your mark to the streets
That everyone fan acknowledged
As you performed tricks
One wheel and no hands
Gaping over the side walk to the street
In and out speeding through traffic
As you proclaimed your glory
In your hand made car, your bike
It and I a young road scavenger
Vegas, Prose
Let me introduce you to my small world. I grew up in the seventies, in a poor neighborhood, in the ghetto where poverty prevailed. It is where dreams meant to either be teachers, made or trash men or to be imprisoned or homeless one generation after the next. I attended a parochial school in North Las Vegas. My parents worked two jobs to make ends meet. I adapted to gang violence in the streets. Where shooting and drive bys were common. Gangs would hang out at the schools drinking 8 balls, throwing broken bottles as I passed by. Young gang members would respect older ones while they hosted neighborhood meetings. The cutest gang member would be the straight A students who would go on to professional athletes who dealt drugs. It is where clubs would be shot up after each week. Some neighbors mentality meant to do roguish things like trashing street signs and writing gang graffiti on walls to mark their territory. Teens hung out in groups to watch the streets smoking weed until driven off by police officers. It is where there was a Conner liquor store and church could be found on every corner. Where gangs were not invited in the church and the store owner knew its neighborhood kids that shopped there often and would not dare rob the store. Throughout the year, boys played on the basketball court training future stars as girls watched the boys play hoping to catch one. There were street drill teams thinking of rebuttal routines for competitions. Prostitution was elevated until they got pregnant to trap a man to marry them. Girls knew who as kids who they would marry, how many children they would have, what kind of car they would drive, what type of house they would live in and knew imagined impoverished career they would work. Block parties would go on every summer where anyone could go to their block neighborhood parties or hang out at the park block parties. Kids would have water balloon fights at the end of the school year. Neighbors would sit out playing loud music, while playing dominoes and young girls braided hair while talking girl talk. It was a time where everyone would support one another prone to peace when we were all one family.
Player, Spoken Word
I thought I had a man. A BMW. Ooops;. but he fooled me into believing he was a good man. You see, I was not good to myself. I was not true to myself when I trusted my body to be used for free, for good conversation, for lust. I had been living a lie. I dreamt of the fairy tale wedding, having kids, a house, a good car and good job if I met the perfect mate. I thought worldly on him but you see he played me with his mind control act, that I was believing it. I was his slut. You see, the player was a class act. He had it going on. He was all that. When I thought I had him wrapped around me pinky, I turned out to be a freak under neath the sheets. Brother had it going on. He was fine to me. He had a bank roll that he loved to spend on me. He personality was smooth. His conversation was intellectual. He had class. If he asked me to jump, I would say how high. For this man I was willing to go the distance. Sex was so good, I aint lying, I thought he was the one. You see, each moment of ecstasy was a lie. I was fooled into believing sex would make him special. Sex would make him all mine. Sex was the foundation of our relationship. Sex would keep him coming back to me. I had to have it. It did not matter where I did it. We could have sex in the jeep, sex at the crib, sex on the counter, sex at work, sex at school. I had an addiction to giving this man what he wanted, wherever he wanted whenever he wanted it. He wanted it so much, sex was the mind game we played. He tricked me into believing he needed me. He needed my loving as a token of chastity. With that said, I found the truth about sex after each child. He left me bare foot and pregnant year after year. That all those years of commitment, I was played. That I was a warm hole to pee in. that I was the kick on the side with a concubine to raise alone, no but by his cousin or maybe he said to give our child to his girlfriend or wife to raise. He said I was about nothing. I felt like nothing. There are 3 sorts of women to a man, his loyal wife, his loyal friend and his loyal freak. I was the freak he came too when his wife was not there to submit to him. Men are control freaks and if you are foolish enough to believe it, you have been played. I thought I was good enough for him to come back to me. I was a bag of tricks. Now all I speak of are commitments and having just one true love. All the men I knew were like this. I did not ask to be a hutchie mamma playing tricks by a bunch of high rollers. I wanted to be the innocent virgin who was respected and treated like an African queen. All I am saying is do not make the same mistake sleeping from man to man, when you deserve better.
To my Unborn, Spoken Word
…sorry I disrespected you. All the times I lived longing for your daddy to step up to the plate, longing for your daddy to step up to the plate, longing for your daddy to step up to the plate to claim you. For he did not know of his Godly creation. His own salvation. Instead I saved you from the agony and distress before you were born into poverty, abandonment and denial. I protected you from neglect. It is what I thought I wanted. It is about me. It is what no one understands. And when I inhaled life, I felt the taste of your breath when I aborted you. I feel the selfish pain of guilt that I betrayed you. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. It has always about me what I wanted to have in life. I could not support you. I thought I wanted us to grow together through fate to face rejection from ignorance and betrayal. I wanted my baby daddy to be a daddy. I wanted your daddy to be a daddy. I wanted your daddy to be a daddy. And so I kept you a secret. Sorry my decision was final with out much thought not knowing the inevitable of one day seeing you achieve. I chose this path, to not be born without reason but with just cause. And if I see purpose through reasoning, wanting to tell your daddy the secret that lies within me, our souls will be redeemed. Many tears, many tears, many tears; I cry.
