PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My inner cries seem to flood inner cities...

drowning the dreams of a poverty teen, as my moms washes her hands with me...

an orphan on the rich streets of pestilence...

the poison from the pavement penetrates my potential,

and now my mind-state is detrimental to the state of minds I've seemed to influence over the heads of time...

they say what goes around comes around...

eagerly anticipating my karma...

walking the streets of see-through warnings...

but I can't seem to see over the shoulders of patient mornings...

preachers mourning my soul...

prophesying the death of my body just to increase their salary...

not looking beneath their incomplete painting of judgment to see that my skin is an art gallery...

I'm a collage God has painted to walk the grounds of misconception...

doubt not your perception...

beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder,

so those who behold me not, or behold me for I've got,

just don't know me...

look over your cold shoulders and see me in God's image,

recognize the God in me...

the rebirth of Adam to Eve, in the form in which he was meant to be to her...

walking on the waters of Jesus' tears like the resurrection of Peter...

life has taken me under its wings and drop me off in its last days...

where the ways of man out-stands the ways of mind,

and the hands of men are powerless to the hands of time...

which pounds on the frames of mind...

the frames of hers and his...

and my mind-frame is to give subtility to the simple through prophetic poetry like the proverbs of Solomon,

son of David, the king of Israel...

like Michael, the archangel,

with the devil I contend...

disputing not the body of Moses, but the body of men...

baptized in the body of sin...

their imperfections is my perfection...

their the Judas' to Jesus,

within me is John the servant,

revelations are foretold through my reflection...

through my perception, the oral eye of the world perceives micro-ceptions, deceived in micro-seconds...

I'm the address to blessings, dispelling fears,

bottling my tears, quenching the thirst of my alcoholic peers...

I wrote my dreams in stone with the blood of an orphan

fiend, and now truth is addictive to a million teens...

a million minds divided by a million times equals...

a million, times the minds of a million men...

marching to freedom, but somewhere they took a wrong turn to Washington DC,

now watch as they don't see...

what I saw two lifetimes ago...

when minds weren't addicted to money,

and money weren't addictive to minds...

I think they called that time...

NEVER!

never have I seen better times than this,

and bliss still doesn't exist...

but I must insist to be persistent within this racial tension... but it's funny,

when my people think they can commence to uniting with

racist people in regards to money...

black souls are hurting because of promised commerce

never awarded...

reparations should have been rewarded,

but it's neglected,

therefore patience, we can't afford it...

but I'm at the end of my whip it seems...

still in the projects trying to dream...

22 years of age, and plagued with false testaments and

forbidden fantasies...

so there you have it...

my life, go ahead and attack it...

but i'm a biblical inquisitor,

and for the truth I'm starving...

but until it's visible to me...

I'll continue to spit these PROVERBS OF POVERTY...



Tha Prodigal One...