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Great minds think alike, but do great poets write the same? Poets from across the country, and around the globe have come together to breath life into the diverse entity that is poetry.
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A Cross To Bare
by Tre G.-Poetic Assasin-Blackvision
Copyright: © 2009
can ye drink of the cup that I drink of? and be baptized with the baptism that I am baptized with? Mark 10:38 KJV
Don't tell me you can do this….
Don't twist your face to say
you possess this gift
if you are swayed by the opinions of critics.
My fellow poets will even admit it;
you can't say you do this
until ya hearts been split in two
until ya mother has left you
for being too dark,
until you've been stabbed, shot at,
had chunks bitten out your face,
until you've occupied a space
that has a bathroom,
bedroom, and
living room,
all in one room,
with cement carpeting the floors-
bars for front doors,
no bell,
and you call it a hut,
cause you've been there too long
for your sanity to call it a cell.
You can't appreciate heaven
until you've experienced hell,
so don't tell me
you can pour hoards of emotion
into oceans of words and give them motion
unless you've been crucified
like I,
or died a thousand deaths alive!
Crossed states
with high hopes of winning slams
only to lose in the first round
to some punk droppin' a poem
that sounded like a mother goose piece,
so you had to sleep at a bus stop
cause the prize money was your way home.
Until you've been booed
for speaking a piece
that made interracial couples cringe
for fear of how society
truly
views them,
until your friends are in nights
while you are among strangers
populating poetry cafes
don't seek praise from me
cause until you've been given an ultimatum
"me or your damn poetry"
and you've responded with
”good luck with your future endeavors.”
your wallpaper are poems thumb tacked up
waiting to be memorized
and you've actually done something
after hearing a poet sayin’
”the revolution will not be televised”
don't tell me you do this,
Until you've walked 4 miles
only for a venue to be closed, and instead
of fussing you performed in the street.
Until you wake up with ink stains on your
face looking like you've been attacked by jigglypuff,
Until you carry extra t-shirts in your book bag
cause you know that this journey
will have you changing a few times,
Until you try to recite without mics
and half a voice
have your rolls royce turned
into a mo-ped
and still get to the finish line-
line for line I carve individually
to not be compared to any
fruit or vegetable bearer to the exact
core
some call it a chore
but I call it forefather respect
blazing a trail without greg oden injuries,
this gift given to me
I unwrap boe tie standing boe legged
and deliver accordingly
So don't tell me you can do this ....
My foundation is based on
more than making a wish.
Envisioning falling stars,
where I've mourned the lost
of dreams that escaped my grip.
Catching only illusions in its place
as I wait for this grace
to take away the mask of disgrace
I solemnly wear on my crestfallen face.
For this thing called life
is a marathon race
filled with roaming realities
running rambunctiously
and carefree to reach
a far fetched, yet attainable goal
cloaked in the disguise of destiny.
So I will not give in
to the festering voice
that pesters from within
attempting to undo
all that I have acquired.
A tempting move considering
the sacrifices made
that must have sent
an enticing aroma
to unseen entities
who inconspicuously conspired
against me to take my sanity,
but fortuitously failed.
And you have the audacity to mock my experiences
by acting like you were born and bred for this?
You cannot bear what I've gone through,
let alone convey its significance.
But I dare you to go ahead and try!
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Bianca's Face
by Poetic Assasin & Thomas K.
Copyright: © 2009
When the clock hit...
Age traced it's timeline
across and above broken brow
noting years passed as well as
present, seen through eye -
socket corners cracked
seeing life to its fullest
drought hidden between folds of skin
wrinkling the fabric which she based
life on; her looks
touched
...many
With a plastic comfort
The over couches protect from
Jerry curl juice type comfort
and she disguised it well,
like she took blackface notes
licking it's creases and inhaling...
Smoke-stained teeth placed in
Polident, sat patiently
...awaiting light to break
a new days hymen,
comfortably bleeding between
broken bridges, fitting to
molds, wanting morning meals
made for the eldest of champions.
Lips, cracked, touched juice and brim of
glass while senses explore
every taste-bud
wise enough to tell
spoon fed dreams to watch
for timeless forks in the
road to oblivion
a frowning chin,
bleeding clef
winding road of moles
_________________________
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From The Ground Up
by Tre G. & Poetic Assasin
Copyright: © 2009
I’ve always believed my life to be a trial
No jury, just God with judgment and gavel
Watching while I’ve traveled the earth
Trying to find out what my mission is
From living in dark corners to running courses
through corridors where martyrs loath mourning
knowing morning means we begin to fight again
and there’s no room for sensitive soldiers crying over
friends that knew the risk before they joined in
I’ve found myself loving the stickiness of blood as it dries
And the sting of the heart compelling the hurt to cry
Found comfort in the content of sin
Became bitter like winter wind blowing on exposed skin
But I'm learnin....
to be a man of God in camouflage
learning to dodge those that ram
makin new space like pods
playin the odds of life and death
two steps and a half breath into a complex process
breaking an analyzing so I can easily digest, but
I have yet to accept the depth and breadth of its context
as my own concept
Not that it is complex, it's just that I'm still
Ananlyzing what's left of this shadow cast by shallow light
I am the reflection of the devices that divide us
An omeba, something like a 2 seater transforming into
a minivan, a clear mind can create infinite devices
From the vices that guide the lifeless
but I'm not righteous
but i might just throw in a line or two about
samson or selassie- social with my security
the religion in me is purity because I gain knowledge from
multiple sides
These are my confessions
The conception of an immaculate assassin
grasping mics life knives
after pen point aimed at blanked page
makes way for feet to grace stage
I am a cross between a poet and sage
effortless- and if you think this is an illusion
bring your cam then- put a meal on your tray
bet me about a G, then disect - reflect - but
one thing you shouldn't do is neglect
I put the truth on blast
Like prophet with a grenade....
use to fade away from the fade
brush cut - cut into my clarity
and though the braids were brave in strength
the locs have no combination to open up failure
I am the jailer's dread;
Feet stuck in the concrete left for dead
But dying was never on the list of things to do today
regained health- took on all obstacles when I could have fled
bald head, brown face, black fist raised
without pick-i get
around blocks writers have named brain chains
Mind converted to words like spark to torch
went from porch monkeys to porch gorillas
If the brain needs recharging
aint no sense worrying bout the power of a dollar
I take change by force
Play the game or get scrotched
like the devil with a gas can and match in hand
I burn everything that turns
From hell--up
But i'm learnin.....
To be a man of God marching to heaven
Steel toe / shell toe / or all toes
Rucksack packed on back
and some say soldiers lack the discipline
for the commitment of adrenaline in each composition
To them I offer sentiments of competition
When the eminence of every sentence
leaves them lookin like kids on ritalin-
stuck....
luck ran out -clovers hiding behind secret tenements
with no innocence in judgment
and I'm content with leavin you hung on every line
so nevermind trying to finish this
my life is not a script but a trial
denial left on the highway broken thumbs an all
finding clues along my journey, constant mysteries I unravel
so God can drop the gavel
once I find out what my sentence is
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Nomad
by Tre G. & Safia
Copyright: © 2009
I've never stayed anywhere long enough
to wear out my welcome
the left behind would say
I was running
despite what I'd tell them.
you see my heart is wild, pure, and....
not for sale.
One must come to realize
anything stagnant has died
Gypsy winds lured me from the lullabies of old,
The lullabies of home
But a distant echo
I’ll charm my way through fold-out couches and
Spare rooms, but
Never long enough for
The sheets to wrinkle
leaving your understanding in realms of depression
I know I left the impression of returning,
but learning to cope with disappoint
is the best ointment
for those hopes of seeing me again.
I am kin to lighting,
friend of the summer breeze,
second cousin to the dichotomy
of novelty, and familiarity
twice removed from heaven's presence,
steppin' away from hell's idle minds
I will find peace on the next street
of the next town,
in the next state,
maybe the next face,
but don't hold your breathe
thinking I'll stay,
I'm only here long enough to plot an escape.
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Runoff
by Tre G. ~ JasLee ~ Ave
Copyright: © 2009
It's raining
and as usual cloudy
at least the weather can keep up
with the paths you take
every single one
leaving me behind
to decipher mud-smeared footprints
as the water taps me
on the back
I even watch you walk away
praying you'd look back
offering some sort of hope,
some placement of faith
any shape of face that says,
you'll come back and play again
Nestle me beneath the
umbrella and allow me
to burrow forehead
on your lips.
But, do not steer away
the sun's rays
and abandon the love
that's leading
us through
an illusion of something
more than friendship
more than lovers,
more than cosmic entities,
cause we are closer than enemies
exercising wisdom,
loving without inhibitions
constricting consciousness
like gods,
speaking as if
the other already knows
and we do;
but I can't pass this off as heartache,
because no matter how many times
you leave
I will always love
when you come home
I want to pull you back
by the strings of your neck
but I'll be gentle
and sing softly
just loud enough for you
to ignore me
aching
for the sake of adoring me
boring me,
staked a claim
in the passionate state
of flamboyant you
flames boiling the stew
of all we've weaved
into pretending there is no
us
but believe me,
solitude is deaf
and you cannot be beautiful
alone.
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