art

Here Where I Was

Folder: 
Raps

Got that futuristic mind set that I'll never out grow ; cuz even if my past made me take steps in the ghetto ; it only made more focused to where I was determined to go ; & as a kid I remember jamming to tupac feeling alive as an embryo ; & now its hysterical how I find this rap game to be childsplay ; I was spittin since I was baby ; so at birth I was on my way ; & I'm not one to count days as they go by ; I jus invision the steps needed until I can fly ; moving on & graduating from my past life ; looking at the world & I can tell we have a diff vibe ; no words exchanged but looking at me you see I'ma alumni ; no not illuminii but given the chance if i was offered then I would deny ; offer woman money power but this soul u never could ever could buy ; cause i'll always remember where I was ; no matter where I'll go ; I'm always here where I was ; never to leave & never forget how I was born ; had my heart on my sleeve but i swear it would never be worn ; i focused on the new me I envisioned I had to become ; & now that im really here i feel the challenge has only begun ; & I'ma see this to the end but i see I could never be done ; continuing with the passion in my heart & starting to get a feel for this burn ; & yea meeting death a couple of times is the only way that chu learn ; so Im pulling against there will even if it gets torn ; while letting my music carry my soul into the lyrics that form ; but no matter where it'll take me & even if I reborn ; my passion will never go cold cause my heart will always stay warm .
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The Statue and the Maripoza Nun

I saw a statue striding
towards the falling sun,
and reaching out to greet it
was the Maripoza nun.

Mother Maripoza,
adorned in many chains
sought banter with the stone,
and though she was supposed,
in her holy ways,
she saw no sense in this
thing that's made of stillness
choosing now to swagger.

She bargained with the statue,
told him he'd be saved,
if only he would settle
and decorate the grounds again.
But the towered stone behemoth,
with simple, shaking head,
lifted high his two-ton foot
to set about its chosen way.

With his blank and weathered sockets,
he caught glimpse of local coasts
and all the wild things that grew nearby,
calling out with many colors.
He sought no more than they who could
grow high as he eroded:
like a father, full of pride,
ready to collapse alongside life.

But the Maripoza nun refused;
she scolded all his selfishness,
and climbed a set of golden stairs
to drape the chains about the waist
of the foolish, moving mountain peak
who'd thought it wise to move like man,
tearing from his rightful post
and into dreams of nearby coasts.

And so he was laid and grounded,
for years and into decades.
He stands as still as gnats in amber,
waiting for the nun to pass away.
While good Mother Maripoza,
content with all her deeds abound,
settles in to her exhaustion,
and pays witness to the statue's listlessness.

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Golden words

Folder: 
Unique Poems

My mouth bleeds out gold // from every word dat is told // words dat are inspired from this diamond hardened soul // so let me enrich ur mind with these words dat u dnt understand // & u won't be able to see at first because they're diamonds in the sand // dig them up & uncover da meaning // & sorry but not every one is suppose to get ur appealing // put them in ur mouth // swallow them whole // & let ur brian begin to unfold // now if u got sumthing to say // then let it be told // use what u got to let it be shown // weather it's poetry, rap, singing or dancing // let ur words turn to gold, put money on ur map & start advancing

.

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Music Creation

Folder: 
Raps

It's a beautiful dark fantasy when I create music from wats inside of me // the joy & pain of my bipolar life // the battles I fought and everything that I Strifed // memories, struggle, pain & power // addiction, beauty, strength & hours // the blood the tears the laughs the lies // the fear, the smiles, the sweat, the pride // music creation I give it life with an everlasting beat that never dies // listen closely so you see the why's // understand da meaning as it comes alive // the texture, the melody, the words that form // a masterpiece in effect my vision was born // now u see da creation that was stored in mind // u see no negativity // my art has a fine line // there's many different versions of the music I can create // but there's only one that catches my eye // only one that I'll date & most of u found this to be unexpected // but with my words I've resurrected // her beauty I can't stop thinking about nonstop // I guess I can say I'm in love with hiphop.

.

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Injured Rhythm

Folder: 
Dance & Dreams

i speak aloud the words that flow within my mind
i cannot type the way the drum inside keeps time

i do not know if anything i feel is real
except the changing tides roll on along the wheel

and as it turns i feel i learn - im more confused
with age comes widsom or maybe simply solitude?

a sense of pride of knowing who we are and why
i know im nothing if i cannot empathize

i felt that daily when the teacher would hit play
the music gets me, feel the rhythm love the stage

and now these words are all i have to let you know
Who i am What i am Who you are How we grow

as injured angry hated frustration regret
i fight with hope and dreams and temporary set
backs
need an art i need humanity and touch
turn off the music something please give me a rush
that sounds like drugs i know that world would pull me down
but like a curious child i ponder how that sounds

i try to plan my life at every moment 'off'
my resting calm life isn't calm when you are used

and yet im happier than i have been in weeks
for i can finally tell somebody who seems to seek

ART. and life and sensuality
and everything that's every reason to be free

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Like an American TV

LIKE AN AMERICAN TV

Hello My friend,

Firstly we should find out bad points each other
Because that would be easier in future
We don't need to be serious
Because it gets silly sometimes

All your smile inspires me
Because I see what makes you free
You should tell me everything
Because it gets more interesting

blah blah blah blah blah bla---blah
blah blah blah blah blah bla---blah

like an American TV
like an a..e...an..zeV

the battery's gone..............

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I have decided to be a poet, this is the first poem I have ever created.
Please let me know if I could be a good one or so so.

Untitled (Class Poem)

A man sits with letters and numbers at his feet
In deep contemplation of how to proceed.
Logic persistent, the written word escapes him.
Left with quantity and calculation.
He finds it exhausting and chooses to daydream,
Drawing funny lines in the sand - by hand.
Mouths filled with teeth and fiery intelligence
Orbit about and spout to him relevance;
But try as he may, he finds them so boring -
They continue spilling their values on to the ground.
He remembers as a child how they sounded so shrill,
Filling mind and body with their pressures and dread.
Intentions were noble, methods were flawed;
Still they cannot seem to reach him.
He'd rather craft the dirt than trade his time for theirs;
Such voices laced with fine contempt.
Admiring his work that now devours the Earth,
He doesn't see the sense in their chatter.

So they've borne another artist,
Doomed to filth and peddling scribe.
Dust beneath nails, colors in his hair;
Altering and fashioning and generating nothing.
Spawn of the moonshine, constantly tilted -
Swine of the herb vine, messy and stilted.
The making of bull shit will get you nowhere,
But maybe you're happy just being wasted.

A man sits so stoic, enjoying the air;
Indulgent in quiet, grateful for stillness.
A trifle bit hungry he reaches for something,
And finds he's yet to earn it.
He smiles, so sadly, and yet absolute,
Only to continue his scribbles.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Wrote this some time last year in the last college class I tried to make it through. I had forgotten about it until now.

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Credibility

Can a poet live here
Can an artist be found
Where not even a latte
Can be bought in this town

Of course no one suffers
In the chapel on the hill
Its as quaint as the postcard
With the old worn red mill

But there is desperation
crying out from the trees
The pain is quite real
In the hungry child's pleas

If I give it a voice
Set to meter and rhyme
What will you call it
Will you give it due time

I'm doubtful your cred
even comes from the street
But rather it comes
From the club where you meet

So pardon me please
Great guardian of art
But I still have a mind
And a voice for my heart

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Man Made of Muddle

Embodiment of purposeless, meandering retort

Misanthropic, microscopic, demanding kind of sort

Stoic in a fractured sense that does no good for none

Emboldened still on window sills before a darkened sun

Rhetoric of a clouded mind that bends to wade in gloom

Identified by none despite the drawings in his room

A wielder of the pen and pad and digital decree

Dance upon intoxicants or dance to breaking knees

Able to feel, enjoy and laugh at your behest

Quietly, behind his frames, contemplating death

A possessor of the factor sole, the haunt of his beneath

The acts of yore that left him dying, settled out of reach

But he has hope for languages composed of lucid vibes

A hand of time and space to place a bridge to the divine

And grasping firm his social set with value and resolve

He'll speak in tongues of sight and song and learn to get along.

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