PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"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."