Thoughts from the right margin

On The Eve...

What will they say when

history is no longer

written in their ink?

Anticipation couldn't stomach the emotions I went through last night. I had a definite bottomless pit of nervousness before the host called my name. Being at home in front of folks I've never seen before put me in a place that was all too familiar. "Open Mic Night" is the only night that still makes me feel the moment before my first "time." The crazy thing is that this first "time" is the same feeling every time before the next time. Many ask why the nervousness, but It's similar to the experience Richard Pryor expressed before every performance:

"I would get so nervous. I mean, I'd get so nervous the day of the show to the point I'd forget what it was I did for a living. I just wanted people to think my material was funny. I mean I didn't know if it was good enough before I went on stage. I just hoped they wouldn't boo me off stage."

No boos last night. An ovation, a few congrats, many handshakes, and the first step in a career. Many more to come.

"Sometimes I really wonder whether or not I'm supposed to be the man I am. I often think about the decisions that I made and wonder if making a better decision would still make me who I am. I haven't always had people's best intentions at heart. I have been selfish. I turned my back on those who befriended me for another set of friends. I asked for forgiveness only to relinquish my own demons. I often talked behind people's backs. I have done much bad, however, I still stand as a person who recognizes those evils and persists on the road to Godliness."

How familiar does this sound? How often do we find this statement to be laughable when spoken by a public figure? Would it matter if they were a person like me or you? What if you significant other spoke these words? Does forgiveness have a double-standard? What do you think?

Fading Beauty

She never once said

I wasn't sufficient enough

to be her everything,

I asked her to live outside of her comfort.

We fit together like

Vermont and New Hampshire

with island fantasies,

but I needed to see the shores.

She gave me a reason

to trust in another's opinion

and she made me feel secure,

but,

my pen doesn't bleed anymore.

Alright.

Many of you have spoken to me about updating this blog more often. I admit that I have been neglecting my site like an unfit parent, but I strongly petition those notions. I have been pursuing my dream to be the writer my pen always knew I could be and I am taking the first steps into the realm of conceptualized reality; I am making my dreams a conscious breath.

For all of my former colleagues and students that pushed me, as well as my best good friends (can't knock a good Forest Gump reference), thank you for the encouragement. This isnt an acceptance speech; its just a proper good look.

The book is on the way!!! I know I told many of you August, but the cover is still being worked on (thanks Jaz.) When it is done there will be a link to my online store under "My Links". Well, let me get back to the task at hand and finish this first project and get ready for the next one. Thanks once again.

Peace.

Writing to save the world

Couldn’t solve with a pen stroke.

It’s Never Just a Tear (Lost Innocence)

Sometimes all I want to do

Is fall into a page

And write my sorrows away.

Give all my hate in ink

To a page that wont be seen

But make you think.

Because ignorance is bliss,

I’ll fold my sorrows

And keep them under my pillow

And this is just the beginning.

I’ll write my tears and

Let these pages cry with emotion,

Because this life ain’t for me,

I’ll change my stars

With astrological precision

Just to see

If I could experience

What life could be.

I want to write all my ills

And osmosize all of my

Under the pillow intentions

And reincarnate my ancestors will

Because it’s too hard to

Walk these streets and not beef

With the young people still,

It’s too hard not to cry

For Antwone Fisher

It’s too hard not to cry

For those who go without dinner

And fend for themselves because

Life cursed them thinner

Because nutrition is fruit snacks,

Potato wedges, mumbo sauce, and corn

Washed down with orange juice,

It’s too hard not to cry ya’ll.

And I’m a man and

Men ain’t supposed to cry

So my words will only

Overflow this well of emotion

Inside my throat with every word I spoke

So I’ll just,

I’ll just spit my tears

And not talk about ‘em

Stand in the face of my fears

My reflection

And say that I embody my words

These tears my verbs

Are forfeited herbs

Through the chains of my being

My heart pumps blood

But my ink pen’s bleeding

And I ain’t crying

Because this lesson before dying

Might make a man out of me,

But if men cry in the dark

And I spit tears in the light

I’ll be a Neo for insight

That breaks through the Matrix

And spits life

These tears are my life

So I’ll spit for my mother

Spit for my woman

Spit for those ghetto kids

That ain’t killing hunger

Spit for those that can’t

Help but see themselves as niggas

And for those that tug at your mind

And try to get at yuh

And cry for the bright tomorrow

When theses words become literature.

Imma spit for the memory

Of those that came before me

In classrooms

Even if when I teach I teach it

Some of ‘em find it boring.

Imma spit for little sisters

Born from my stepmother’s womb

That look up to me

Because I’m more than a life

That ended abruptedly

And if a musket be my only defense

Verbal shots will penetrate

Your lost innocence.

(It’s never just a tear ya’ll.)

An Under the Counter love

I used to love h.e.r.

Like Common did,

Under the table

No taxes.

Intelligence

Embellished it

Just to get some glances,

Had her mind

Spinning off my words

I’m her imagination’s axis.

She gave access to her code

I strummed the drum

Of rock & roll

But fell deep in love

With poetry’s soul...

I buttered her muffin

And left it cold.

She left me no

Choices yet voices

Her pain from not knowing

Where she would be going

If guided by the heart of a poet,

And she’s a poet,

And geez she knows it’s

Just a lung puncture

If not a heart broken.

She kept me in limbo

My kinfolk

Told me don’t stress it

Be the cool brotha,

Just be token.

I swear I was hoping

She would see I was dope and

We would be righteous

And together be tokin

But she started choking

Inspired by tote bags’

Conversation

It’s truly hatred,

A "rapper" said it rules the nation,

Now I’m Vexed like I was David.

Jaded by the mold she broke

I used to spit ill shit

For her I silently wrote.

And now a quote means nothing more

Than an utterance adored

She’s in my lap,

I’m in her mouth,

Sponged by poetry,

Our love’s absorbed.

Peace.

At a Loss For Words

If I could tell her what she means to me,

I would spend endless hours

On finite verbiage.

I’d be perfect in her eyes...

If only I could

Put down these Playstation games

And pay attention.

True Religion

Fresh jeans and churches

On every block and yet,

We still can’t find peace. .

My Infatuation

I can’t live in this skin

This daily monotonous

Day-mare

Again

I can’t, I,

I can’t breathe

In this blend

Of false notions

This skin

Of false hope it’s this

This,

Pen is my throat

I scream when it’s potent

I can’t,I,

I can’t live

And not live

I swear I walk and not live

I can’t think and not focus

I can’t live and it’s hopeless,

I,

I need you my think pen

My words bleed

Through my ink pen.

My,

My dis-ease

Inoculations

My truth-ease

When lost in pages

Of poets who lead me on

And let me be

A peck on my temple

A touch on my knee,

Baby girl

She won’t nearly sweet as you be,

But truth be,

I,

I need you like cooked food.

I swear I bleed for you

A good dude

And take heed you do

It…

For…

Me…,

But I’m Robin Thicke without you.

I left you on pages past,

When they ask how you’ve been,

I tell ‘em if wages last

Then don’t ask

The last time I touched my pen.

Quickie dilly dallies

You give to hold me over

I fiend for you,

My day-mares are hopeless

I wait patiently to dream of you

But my dreams defer

Like syrupy sweets,

Sweet syrupy treats

When I refer to my dreams, but

I’m still lost in my days without you

I’m dazed and confused

Wearing masks of Paul Lawrence Dunbar

In dreams of Langston Hughes see,

I haven’t written in years

I’m only smitten with tears

My love left me with kids

These pages my kids

Aren’t filled with love like

They used to,

My pen,

She bled her last words.

I miss you baby girl

I swear...

I’m Robin Thicke without you.