"It's been a bit,
since I've written real words,
real verbs, letters lined up
to litter the page
with alliteration,
metaphors, hyperboles,
other devices that help gain
your undivided attention.
It's been a bit,
I almost quit,
because the last time I was on stage,
I felt like a tripped.
I felt like I didn't perform,
I knew I was pulling punches,
because there was much to consider,
but now it's got me a little bitter.
I held back.
I held back,
lowering my tone,
juxtaposed to my actual voice;
loud.
I held back,
because of the
familiar face
In the crowd.
I held back,
instead of letting it rip,
taking people on a little trip
to recount how one's lid
was flipped.
I held back
because I was scared
that I wasn't hip
and I wasn't hop,
when I was raised on Wu-Tang
and Nas
in a place where
where rain constantly drops,
and I know how
the beat drops,
the mic rocks,
and how rhymes can make time stop.
I held back
because the tone of my skin
has people guessing
wrong my ethnicity,
if you think I'm white,
you're not right,
and to be honest
that's not point.
Because I come from a place
where I was too nerd to be brown
and too chale be white
and too polite to be hanging out
with the gangsters
stealing cars
and shooting at other's backs,
and if you think
I'm talking about blacks
that's the problem,
assumption causes caution,
because not only were those
want-to-be thugs
of fairer skin,
my only friends
were much darker kin.
In the Marines,
we call ourselves green,
and you're either
dark green,
light green,
and there's no disillusion,
you disagree?
Shoot,
perhaps in the Army.
And yes,
the Navy too,
there's no turning back,
I'm no longer holding back,
what I'm saying is true.
The point of this piece
is to bring peace
to me,
that I was wrong
to hold back,
to withhold from the reader,
because how can I call myself
a poet
if I'm not painting a picture?
With your mind as the canvas,
and my words as the paint?
I watched poets come on stage,
deliver works of art,
things beautiful,
and I saw a beautiful, torn heart
put her hand up in the air
to an artist work,
like it was gospel in the church,
with thoughts on me! I saw,
but I held back,
and what I provided last time
was a finger painting
of child's skill.
I need to be real,
paint a real picture,
my motions and emotion
the finest paintbrush,
now fluttering about
all over your mind,
hopefully breathing to life
that I,
a man,
am more than some accusation,
of being mean heart.
Of being a relatable object,
supposedly,
to a poem so eloquently put
'he broke my heart,
and called it poetry'?
Get out with that
hand raised in the air
while another poet
spills out her pain,
and perhaps next time
I won't hold back,
paint a picture
of how her heartbreak
did become my poetry.
Yes, I'm being specific,
and context would make
for a much hotter piece,
but I'm over this,
over being scared,
I've conquered mountains
and crossed bridges.
Reader,
I respectfully submit,
give me another chance.
I won't hold back."
She comes through the doors and my eyes are locked.
I can't help but stare she got me on the clock.
Round and round we go.
I stare into the unknown.
I see the passion in her eyes.
Something I wish I could hide.
Her brown eyes get me.
No matter how hard I try.
She is always there and nothing can hide.
The brown eyes get me.
They get me everytime.
I can't get lost.
Lost in her brown eyes.
He never thought tho skilled in the art,
how anyone could understand.
And so he kept his wayward heart,
hidden in the palm of his hand.
Going back to a lonely bed,
not comforted by the clock.
The tormented life that he had led,
a mind that raced nonstop.
I have seen this; in my mind,
the tossing and turning each night.
Waiting for some open heart's sign,
with promise to feel the light.
So he trudged thru weary days,
struggling to breathe.
Not knowing peace, but confusing ways,
deciding not to believe.
She always dreamed; tho not out loud,
of that special kiss.
Every time she sang for crowds,
something was amiss.
The social life that she had known,
was coming to an end.
And every night she slept alone,
needing more than a friend.
I have watched this, I have prayed,
trying to help her believe.
As she struggled to just stay brave,
wearing her heart on her sleeve.
So, she worked faithfully,
to keep the wolf from the door.
Not having much security,
but she knew there had to be more.
One day she met this stranger,
his merriment sprinkled with glee.
But in his pretty eyes she saw danger,
and whispered,"what's happening to me?"
From here on out she couldn't turn aside,
not that she even wanted to,
her feelings could not be denied,
she had to think this through.
Meanwhile, his heart was enraptured;
though he never said a word.
Her cute little smile, his lost soul captured,
others thought this absurd.
She brought him chips, a coke, and seemed
to just always be there.
They felt like they had met in a dream,
they had so much to share.
So by and by through much duress,
their secret could keep, no longer.
Late one night, they had to confess,
together they were stronger.
And now their days are blue skies;
for sweet love they have found,
and she is lost inside blue eyes,
and forever he, in brown.
"Happy Anniversary"
to 2 people who HAVE FOUND the magic..
I LOVE YOU BOTH FOREVER...
Mom<3