See past my misfortune,
Pardon the interruption
I have just a moment to speak
The floorboards are squeakin
These roaches are creepin
The ceiling’s beginning to leak
My mother, she cries
At the bat of an eye
She trembles in fear that she’s failed
The weight of the world’s
On this rusty old banister
And I just cut myself on the rail
Please excuse my clothes
Or rather, these rags
They cover but sometimes they rub
The wounds you see
They’re because of my Dad
My only proof of his love
He mentioned something bout
Not being a man
While quickly turning his face
His attention comes right back to me
He’s able to shove
Now here comes the love
While holding a tall MGD
Hear through my slang
The twinge of my voice
It’s the same voice I use to pray
These words have gotten me
Out of sticky situations
And allow me to be here today
God hears me fine
In fact his is like mine
Well at least when he’s talking to me
Try not to judge my carefree ‘tude
My bounce, my sway, my snap
And excuse me if I seem a little bit rude
Just one question, “Where the fuck YOU been at?”
See you’re here kind Sirs
You’re at my door
Where nothing but poverty dwells
That door’s falling off the hinge
And with my words you BOOST your mobile sells
Pay no attention to those guys on the stoop
They’re charged with keeping me safe
The cops treat this block like the Indy 500
They fly through it as if it’s a race
Pardon if my nostrils flair at the ease with which you judge
Or if our kinky attributes only stimulate you in a club
If my athletic frame only interests you on the field
Pardon me if I wish for you the same fateWhat if you’re wounds never healed?
These are titles to some of the poems that I'm writing. I need to keep track of em somewhere, might as well be here.
Big Black Buck
See past my misfortune
Same Story, Different Pay
My Shadow, My Future
On Becoming a Man
Bitter Relationship Stuff
An Excuse to Scream
Open Door Policy
Just Like You
Happy Relationship Stuff
What I Owe
I just called-in for you...by the way, you're sick.
I let you hold my pen.. I took it out of it's protective sleeve. It's covered in only my prints and my fingers still have the curve of that Pilot. They naturally curve to the truth as I saw it.
My fingers still move, now, connected to that truth that you write. Blind strokes are giving me hand cramps. the truth is coming too fast for me to keep up. I'm sayin... I want my PEN BACK!
Better yet! I want your truth to slow down and stop so I can catch you with large strides and trace your history/ my future. I want to walk side-by-side with those dark drops that pulled us apart. the drops that you left so I could find you.
So, can I get my pen back?
See, you can't use it it for long. Its ink comes from all the times that I've stared at the stars and saw your face amongst them, from all the misheard echos that bounce off these walls, from my 1 step forward, 2 steps back syndrome, from the, " I can see why you could hate me" place. This foolsh martyr's blood flows directly in to the grooves of that pen. It turns black from lack of oxygen, cuz I can't breathe, not until I have my pen back.
Right about now my ink is running out and you, surely, are having to double back to make your truth legible; if you can get anything out at all. I wish my steps tugged those fingers of yours into submission; that my watery sight made your grip slippery to the touch; that my mood turned that ink from black to red. Let's make a deal. My pen for your memories. An equal exchange. No funny business. Same time, man. I don't know you. Same time.
So, so you gon hold it hostage? Even though It's out of words, you'd still keep it as a trophy in your pocket cuz it's nice to look at?
I guess that the only way to get mine back is to give you your's huh?